The End

Updated 7/30/11
Friends, work continues at a not-very-rapid pace.  Rest assured, the story is not yet through but shall proceed as always intended.

Updated 4/24/11
Wonderful readers!

I'm still here.  I apologize for the delayed continuation of the below-written chapters.  I have recently undergone a job relocation but do rest assured that I have every intention of continuing forthright the story we have begun.

Yours truly,

**Under construction**

Dear Reader,

The story is not yet through!

If you read this far and want me to hurry up with the writing, leave me a comment and let me know.


Chapter 46

The next day at work Sharon and Roger inadvertently agreed not to remember their kitchenette encounter of the day before.  Roger surfed the web and printed some funny images he found online as per the usual routine.  The printouts didn't look as good in black and white but, as Yanni Moore relished to note, color ink doesn't grow on trees and therefore not a drop of cyan, magenta, nor yellow could be found anywhere in Super Megacon International's office.

Sharon arrived 20 minutes late and spent another 10 minutes in her car applying her various make-up and age-battling products.

When Sharon entered, Roger was busy playing Minesweeper and didn't notice her pass by.  When she passed by, Sharon was busy imagining what she would have for lunch and didn't notice Roger's hurried clickety-click flag plantings.

She did notice something, though:  Charlie.  Charlie the motherfucking unicorn plastered push-pin style to the back wall of Roger's cubicle.  Could it be?  Her subconscious ran circles through and around itself.  The coloration was a little off but the artistry and unicorn figure were unmistakable -- no other unicorn had the steely, wise, tenacious horn of Charlie.  The blue and pink unicorns pranced in the background of the image in dim shades of light gray.

Sharon stopped walking.  She realized she had forgotten something in her car and turned around to go back for it.  "Charlie the Unicorn" she voiced softly.

A moment later she realized that the thing she thought she had forgotten was already in her purse -- her mind had played a trick on her.  She stood directly in front of Roger's desk; the clickety-click stopped.  Roger looked up at Sharon.

"Top o' the mornin' to you" Roger called out with a horrible mock Irish accent.

"Charlie the Unicorn" Sharon said again.  "Roger Thomas, I think we should be together."

Roger was unable to process what he had just heard.

"Woah, wait!  I meant to say that my lip balm is right here in my purse"  Sharon explained.  "I don't actually think that we should be together.  I meant to say that to myself in my head but my mouth said words that I would not normally expect it to say.  I'm not sure why I even said it.  I think you're repulsive.  Eww -- gross!"

Roger gazed on surprised.  He would gladly have replied but Sharon's fast words made it difficult to know what to say.  "What would she say next?" he wondered.  He reached into his desk drawer and grabbed his hammer, just in case he had to use it.

"Sharon, are you feeling alright?"

"Never better, Roger.  I secretly love you with all of my heart.  It's a secret, don't tell anyone.  Haha" Sharon said.  She knew she would regret the wording of the second sentence before it was complete -- it was as if some inner or outer force was controlling her speech rather than her typical shallow persona.

In the background Dennis cussed.  He rushed in and jogged straight to the corner conference room.  An electrical fire had burned his house down that morning, making him 7 minutes late for the weekly status update meeting.  His tardiness was considered by him to be an unforgivable, unforgettable workplace faux pas -- the others were more understanding.

Sharon's aimless focus was interrupted by Dennis.  She shook her head briefly, as if to refresh her thoughts.  Roger thought he saw a tear form in the corner of her left eye.  She scurried away to her desk.

Chapter 45

If this story were a movie, the scene would likely depict Bojargis standing mid-road.  The camera would pan around his head/body in an orbital fashion clockwise, as viewed from the sky above.  Night clouds would be seen, backlit by the moon and the sun as they do it.  The train would continue rolling by steadily, click-clack, gushing wind up and about Bojargis' cold, pale face.  The wreckage of his briefly-possessed car would glow a fuzzy orange off in the background field.

Some time passed.

As a result of a faulty crossing gate at the railway intersection and some other regulatory indiscretions on behalf of the railroad company, Bojargis soon found himself the beneficiary of a generous financial settlement to compensate for his radiocarpal injuries.  The cost of his gain was substantial, do not doubt, but he felt rather pleased with the final settlement.

A burden perhaps larger than healing his crushed wrist was explaining the nature of the injury upon returning to work the following week.  He would reveal the true cause of the injury to some but mostly blamed it on a fight with a group of hoodlums that had jumped him outside the grocery store -- the story was utterly fictitious and unrealistic but teaching folk are prone to undue nervousness so it went unquestioned.

Chapter 44

Like a timid gazelle slinking to a safari watering hole, Bojargis eased the throttle to the floor, unsure of what would henceforth happen.  The Rampage responded in a dependable, appliance-like fashion.

Before he knew it, news of his escapade had reached the local police airwaves.  A case of "grand theft auto", the crocodiles called it.  The night patrolman woke up when he heard the call and was on the case within several minutes.

As the sirens and lights tore the sky to pieces, Bojargis caught whiff of the impending hassle his actions had attracted.  He lifted his foot for a moment and then repositioned it as firmly as ever against the floor.  This was no time for anything less than full throttle.

The chase that ensued was rather low speed -- not because of the drivers' intentions but rather because of the pedestrian performance of their respective vehicles.  Bojargis piloted with F1-like precision.  The tires emitted minuscule squeals as he rounded corner after corner in the upper range of first gear.  The air whizzing and whistling by paused briefly each time the transmission clunked into second gear.

The lateness of the night worked to Bojargis' favor.  His pursuer was not yet accustomed to the darkness of night and soon became distracted and misled by a poorly placed road sign with many reflectors on it.  He crashed slowly into a ditch and would be unable to continue pursuit.  Bojargis observed the aforementioned event in his rearview mirror.  He relaxed for a moment and rounded another corner.  Ten minutes passed.

Bojargis himself grew weary of the night.  He closed an eyelid and came into an accident at the front of a train that t-boned his new ride at full speed from the right-hand side.  The damage was immense and the wreckage became engulfed in flames from the sparks and flammables that spewed every which way.  The train suffered no significant damage.  Bojargis crawled from the smashed shell of metal.  He dragged his limp, aching body back into the middle of the road and attempted to piece together that fate which had befallen him.

"Well I'll be" he thought to himself.  He began shortly thereafter to sense a sharp yet dull pain sensation in his left wrist, which was bloody and smashed thinner than normal.

Chapter 43

His hands trembled with anticipation and nervousness.  Bojargis caressed the Dodge fenders and licked the sidewall of the front tire.  He could taste the open road and smell the air that would rush through his hair, eyes and face.

Much to his pleasure, the passenger side door was unlocked.  He slithered inside and peeled aside the steering column shroud like the husk on a ripe cob of corn.  The simile would not continue, though, as Bojargis deftly sliced and crossed and twisted the ignition wires such that the Rampage engine soon roared to life.  It kind of hummed to life, actually -- kind of like the cough of a sick cat.  The night sky was filled, literally jam-packed, with this raucous mechanical sound.

Bojargis paused for a moment to reflect on his surroundings.  He smelled the vinyl scent, fresh as can be.  The bench seat provided no meaningful lateral support.  He hadn't yet figured out how to escape from the walled fortress but luckily found that magnetic sensors opened the gate as he and the car inched towards it.  A light in the house behind was illuminated and angry glances shot down from the bedroom window above.  Many a curse word was uttered at that moment, but Bojargis and the car rolled on to their new destiny, out into the Oklahoman night.

Chapter 42

Some hours later, Sharon sat at home on her sofa.  To her left, a large bowl had slidden to the floor.  Saucy remnants of rocky road and strawberry ice cream ran down it's round side; nothing a Rug Doctor wouldn't someday resolve.  Two and one half bottles of wine sat open and empty on the coffee table.  A crappy Julia Roberts movie played on the television set.

Sharon was enchanted, enamored and inebriated.

A second bowl of microwave popcorn sat half-eaten to her right.  Progress had not ceased, simply slowed.  One of those obscure Scandinavian rom-spense novels sat further to the right on the end table.  She had read it and all of the sequels cover to cover.

Soon she would resort to her home pseudo-office where her focus would return again to Charlie the Unicorn and his life of adventure.

"I don't live in a glass house!"  Sharon thought to herself.  "Why must I feel like a child?  I love sweet and sour chicken."  Sharon was, at times, the shallowest of shallow.  While she could, for hours on end, criticize men and boys and other females of shallowness and despicability, she herself rivaled all in these precise traits. Self-pity, loneliness, and vacuousness were not her closest friends, but perhaps some of her most consistent companions.

Chapter 41

Roger arose from his desk and walked down the hallway to the left.  He rounded the corner and entered the smallish kitchenette area reserved for beverage, snack and food preparation.  For to maintain his calm poise and quench his parched-tongue thirst, Roger snatched from the recess of the refrigerator a carton of strawberry lemonade.  A moment later, he had filled a cup with the citric drink.

Sharon walked in and began to pour herself a cup of the no longer fresh, below average office coffee.  Roger turned his body to face her and stared, motionless and silent.  He uttered not a word.  He placed his cup on the counter and crouched down into a crabwalk position.

All the while, Sharon pretended with bitter determination that she hadn't noticed Roger standing, now crouching, some four feet away.  It would be silly for anyone to actually believe that she had not seen him.

Abandoning the ruse she had seamlessly assembled, Sharon scowled and growled, "Roger, what the fuck are you doing?"

Roger was surprised to hear her speak.  He was aware that she had been ignoring him and did not expect her to crack with such little provocation.  He cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy.

Chapter 40

That evening Bojargis returned to 44434 Ticonderoga Trail and scaled the fence with spider monkey-like poise.

Once inside, the object of his dreams was only yards, precious few paces, away.  He leapt at the thought and scurried closer to confirm that which his eyes and senses were telling him.

From this point forward, things would no longer be the same.  Bojargis would henceforth be known as a man of action -- a convicted felon, also -- but more significantly, someone who goes out and gets that which he needs and/or desires.

Three-hundred and sixty-five days later Bojargis made purchase of a tattoo skin artwork for to commemorate the occasion.  He came up with the basic design himself, but left it in the hands of a skilled artisan to emblazon across the landscape of his back.  The result was beautiful.

The tattoo would one day be displayed on but purely due to a lack of understanding, not because it was anything less than strikingly handsome.

Chapter 39

Some days passed and Bojargis found himself woefully sorrowed at the confounding spot in which he found himself.

A man came by and stopped next to where Bojargis sat.  The man was fit and dressed sharply:  straw hat, searsucker suit and white patton leather shoes.  He appeared to be roughly 35.

The man grumbled and mumbled slightly to himself.

Bojargis took the opportunity to explain his situation in great detail.  The man leaned slightly to one side and clicked his tongue, as if to say that he, too had had his share of tough times.

"I tell you what, though" Bojargis continued "I am in a rut.  I've been in this rut since forever.  You might say that I dwell in a rut; I'm a natural rut-dweller of sorts!  Granted, every rut has its ups and downs, but a rut is a rut and the sun doesn't always shine in a rut."

His new friend nodded gently, sampling the light breeze through his nostril holes.

"The chance of any further delay causes me to feel a great wariness" the discussion continued, with Bojargis now more specifically referring to the object of his desire which had inspired his locomo-journey "which is exceeded perhaps only by the weariness the aforementioned delays have planted within me".

The stranger began humming Whitney Houston's 'I have nothing'.  Bojargis wasn't sure what to think at first and paused to try and understand the deeper meaning of this unusual response.

Chapter 38

Dejected Bojargis popped a squat on the curb and attempted to hatch a plan for to make what he wanted his.

It took some time, quite a great while, indeed, but eventually he was able to devise the perfect scheme.

He arose and went again to the buzzer upon the gate.

Click.  "Who is it?" the voice inquired.

Bojargis replied that he was an employee of the insurance company providing coverage of the object which he had previously attempted to purchase and stated that he would need to have a look-see at it as there had been some or other sort of matter.

Click.  "There must have been a misunderstanding -- I can assure you there's been no incident with my property" the owner proclaimed.

Bojargis shook his fist in frustration.  He tersely crowed, "listen here, sir -- why don't you just let me take a peek and we'll be on our ways, now?".

The voice replied that it was afraid not and that Bojargis had best be on his merry way.

"Curses!" he thought to him self.