by Peter Parkin
"Hey, keep your eyes on the road, Mister. We want to get there in one piece."
He hadn't noticed her watching him as he scanned her body. Mike laughed. "Well, you'll have to forgive me. You look so adorable in those duds that I have this sudden urge to just rip them right off you and drag you into the back seat."
Cindy smacked him playfully on the shoulder. "I can tell you're going to your high school reunion. You're already getting in the mood with all your trash talk and back seat memories—or should I say 'back seat fantasies.'"
"Ha, ha. If I had known you in high school, you would have been all over me. You would have been begging for that back seat."
Cindy hiked up her skirt to show a bit more thigh. "Oh, yeah? I think it would have been the other way around, buster. And I wouldn't have been easy, either. You would have had to work like a dog for it."
Mike chuckled. She was probably right.
They rode in silence for a while, both taking in the bustling activity of
Yonge Street on a Saturday night. There was a lot of traffic—people out shopping for the weekend, heading to pre-Halloween parties, or just cruising around enjoying the city.
Mike drove north until he reached Sheppard Avenue. He turned left heading towards the residential area where his old high school was located. He marveled at how the Sheppard area of Toronto had changed over the years.
In 1974, the Sheppard/Yonge subway station was completed, opening up this vast area well north of Lake Ontario to the fast transit system direct to downtown Toronto—and all points in between. For him and his buddies back then, it was a godsend. It exposed their social lives to a whole new world. They were no longer stranded in the burbs—they could hop on the subway and head to where all the action was. Even in their later teen years when their parents bought them cars, they seldom used them to go downtown. It was so much easier, safer, and quicker to ride the "red rocket" as it was referred to back then when all the subway cars were red. Plus, they could drink and not worry about getting caught for impaired driving.
Then in 2002, the east-west corridor was opened up—the Sheppard subway line which connected to the north-south Yonge line, was greeted with ebullience by the people who lived in the northeast quadrant of the city. They could now ride underground along Sheppard, connect at the Sheppard/ Yonge station, and then ride it all the way underground to Union station in the heart of the city's financial district. Commuting suddenly became a lot easier, which in turn opened up more housing districts, more shopping malls and an incredible array of amenities.
The subway brought North York out of the burbs and into being a self-contained city in its own right. The Sheppard/Yonge subway station was the centre of the universe for North York. It was a hub for commuters from east/ west and north/south, and was connected to shopping, restaurants, bars, and apartment buildings. A person could live there, eat there, shop there, and ride to work from there—without ever stepping foot outside. Mike thought this was kind of neat but also, paradoxically, kind of twisted.
Mike graduated from his high school in 1984, and then went on from there to the University of Toronto to obtain his engineering degree. He and his classmates had actually attended one more year of high school than the students nowadays, since Grade 13 hadn't been eliminated until the late 90s. He was glad now that he had that extra year. High school had been fun, whereas university had been too serious...and impersonal. Plus, it was one extra year of playing football. He had played at university as well, but that was a different brand of ball, more intense, and without the school spirit and level of enthusiastic student support that high school typically brought to the sport.
He pulled into the parking lot. Once they were out of the car, Mike put on his long Abe Lincoln jacket, the Abe mask, and his stovepipe hat. Cindy laughed and clapped her hands. "You look fantastic—so authentic! Although, I think your shoulders are a lot wider than Abe's, going by the pictures I've seen of him. He never looked all that healthy."
"Well, I guess if I had to fight a Civil War, I probably wouldn't look too good either!"
Mike adjusted his tall hat, and they walked arm in arm up the front steps of the school. On the front of the building a banner was hanging: "Welcome Class of '84!" Mike smiled, and thought about how quickly those years had flown by. It was always bittersweet coming back to these reunions. People changed a lot during the intervening five years, and there were always a few who had died since the last reunions. The crowd got smaller every time. Some moved away, others just became apathetic and quit coming. There had been 400 kids in his graduating class—most of whom he never even knew— but Mike guessed that they would be lucky to have a hundred show up tonight.
At the registration desk they picked up their name tags and pinned them on each other. Mike quickly scanned the other tags on the table and noticed the names of quite a few of his old buddies. He also noticed names of several guys who he thought were dead. In fact, a couple of them he was sure had been dead for at least a decade. Mike scratched his head, puzzled, and tried to recall the faces in his mind.
"What's wrong, Mike?"
He put his arm around Cindy's waist and started leading her down the hall toward the gymnasium. "Nothing, hon. Just testing my memory with some of those names."
"By the way, you haven't noticed what I'm wearing." Cindy pulled a pendant out from under her cowgirl shirt.
"My God—you haven't worn that in years! It looks great, although I doubt that Annie Oakley could have afforded something like that."
Cindy kissed the diamond pendant and stuffed it back under her shirt. "No, you're probably right about that. However, I seldom get the chance to wear it so I decided to be wild and crazy tonight."
"That was your great-grandmother's, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it's very old but still so beautiful. I have no idea what it's worth now, but I don't care. I'll never sell it. It will be Diana's one day—and then her daughter's."
Mike kissed her forehead. "Don't go putting pressure on her now."
Cindy kissed him back. "I'm so happy to be out with you tonight, even if it's just this stupid reunion. It feels nice."
Mike smiled at his pretty cowgirl. "It sure does."
As they walked down the hall, Mike felt like he was still a student.
Everything looked remarkably the same, and smelled the same. It took him right back. He could see himself hanging out with his buddies, flirting with the girls, making fun of the geeks. Just before turning into the gym, he saw his old locker. He pulled Cindy over to it and uttered the exciting revelation that this had been his. She whispered, "Tell someone who cares."
"Ah, you're no fun. If you knew how many girls leaned against this locker, chatting me up, you'd be furious."
Mike led the way into the gym, passing by several couples whose names he didn't recognize. One disadvantage of a costume reunion was that almost everyone had a mask on and the only way to identify them was to stare at their chests. He walked over to one guy whose build he recognized. He leaned over and read the nametag.
"Well, Bill Semen—are you still shooting? Pool, that is." He remembered poor Bill had always been given a hard time about his name. He was a good sport, though. And he had been a football player, so no one was able to push the kidding too far.
"Hello, Abe. Too bad you didn't attend school here. You could have helped a guy named Mike Baxter. He was never too honest."
The two old friends laughed, shook hands, and then went on to mingle some more. Mike checked from time to time to make sure that Cindy was keeping up with him. He knew she hated these things, but was being gracious about being introduced to everybody—people she really didn't care about.
After about an hour he had met six of his old teammates, and four ex-girlfriends. Cindy didn't seem to be too upset at the patronizing attention from his old flames, probably because they didn't look so flaming hot anymore. Mike thought that while cheerleaders were cool in high school, they sure didn't seem to age too well. He was darn glad
he hadn't married one of them.
Several carts were now being wheeled in to the gym, stacked high with appetizers and pastries. The bar was open and a duo up on the stage had started singing soft background music, accompanied by an acoustic guitar player and a pianist. Mike looked around at the streamers hanging from the ceiling. He remembered being in this gym for games, dances, and assemblies. It seemed so long ago in some ways, and just like yesterday in others.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Cindy was pulling at his jacket sleeve.
"Oh, sorry, hon. I was just remembering."
"I could tell."
Then Mike saw the guy he'd been hoping to see. His best friend in high school, and the last of the old teammates who he'd heard would be here tonight—Steve Purcell. He wasn't wearing a mask; in fact he wasn't wearing much of a costume at all. Steve obviously hadn't changed a bit—always the non-conformist. Didn't take orders. Did things his way. That tendency had helped to make him rich, and had made him one hell of a football player in his day. He was the guy Mike had always counted on in the backfield. Mike had been the quarterback. Steve had been his fullback. Steve always had Mike's back. If he had to throw his body in front of a 300 lb. attacker to save Mike's hide, he would do it. Then bounce back up and do it again. The two of them had made a legendary combination on the field. They became the most famous of all of the players.
It was sad. They never kept in touch anymore. They had gone their separate ways and probably each of them recognized that high school was the only thing they had in common now. Those five magical years, those five carefree years. It seemed to happen that way with most people. The friends you kept for the rest of your life were the ones you met during the next two stages after high school—college and work. Seldom did high school connections remain. Mike wondered if sociologists had ever done a study on why that was.
Steve didn't recognize him because he looked like Abe Lincoln. Mike pulled off his hat and mask, walked over to Steve and spread his arms out wide. "Come to Papa!"
Steve's face said it all. He was beaming. He grabbed Mike around the shoulders and shook him. "How the hell have you been without me protecting your scrawny ass?"
"Could be better—but at least I don't have to apologize for your lousy attitude anymore!"
The two friends embraced and laughed almost as hard as they used to. At least back in high school they could break out into uncontrolled guffaws without having to worry about popping a hernia.
"And you brought your lovely wife again!" Steve reached for Cindy's hand. "Cindy, you remember Steve Purcell? And if you don't, I think you've heard me talk about him before."
Cindy laughed. "Only about once a week! Nice to see you again, Steve." "The pleasure's all mine." Steve bowed. Mike was about to ask about his wife and caught himself. He remembered that Steve had lost his wife to cancer about a decade ago.
Mike and Steve spent a few minutes catching up on the years, with Cindy politely listening in, nodding, and smiling at the appropriate times. Mike could tell she was trying hard to stifle a yawn.
Steve put his arm around Mike's shoulders. "Listen, old buddy. I think I'm getting old."
Mike turned to him. "I've got news for you, Steve—you're already old." "I'm not kidding. Help me out here. I've seen a couple of 'dead guys walking.' Didn't Phil Wilson die several years ago? And Jason Wetlaufer too?"
Mike poked his finger into Steve's chest. "I thought the same thing. I saw their nametags out on the reception desk, and I thought I was going crazy. I mean, I didn't know either of them that well, but I could have sworn I'd heard that they'd died. And they weren't at the last reunion five years ago."
Steve pointed. "Well, Phil's over there—the tall guy wearing the gunslinger outfit, long coat and the Clint Eastwood mask. And Jason is that stocky guy near the bar—see him? He's dressed like Dillinger, or Capone, or some gangster like that."
Mike looked over at both guys and studied them for a few moments. "Funny thing, Phil was short and Jason was tall. These guys were the exact opposite. Maybe they switched nametags to have a little fun with people?"
Steve shook his head. "I don't know. I'm just glad I'm not the only one who thinks these guys are supposed to be dead. I feel better now." The two friends laughed. A half hour passed by quickly while the two old buddies reminisced about their glory years. They each enjoyed their scotches and the occasional little sandwiches that passed by on platters.
Finally, Mike could feel a tug on his jacket cuff—the tug that he knew would eventually come. Cindy whispered. "Would you mind if we went home soon? I'll make it worth your while."
That was all Mike needed to hear. He could be bribed. He'd had enough reminiscing anyway. Enough to hold him over for the next five years.
"Steve, we have to run. It's been great seeing you again. Don't be a stranger."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. We'll do lunch sometime, right?" He chuckled. "Yeah, the famous old exit line. We always say that and then five years goes by. Maybe we should really do it this time." Mike handed Steve a business card. "Phone me when a day looks good for you. We can catch a bite downtown. We're only a few blocks away from each other."
"I will. I promise. Nice seeing you again, Cindy. Thanks for putting up with our old jock talk. It must be nauseating sometimes, eh?"
"Nice seeing you too. And yes, it does grate on me after a while. But it sure is nice to see the pride you guys have for each other, and for what you did together. So, that's a good thing!"
Steve held up her hand and kissed it. "Thanks. Mike's a lucky guy."
At that, Mike and Cindy made their way out of the gymnasium and headed back down the hallway. It was empty except for one man—at least Mike thought it was a man—dressed in a grim reaper costume. Mike nodded as he passed. "Good night." He caught a quick look at his nametag and his stomach did a flip-flop. Richard Saunders, another dead guy. This was too strange.
"Excuse me, sir. Are you leaving?" Richard was calling after him.
Mike turned around. "Yes, we are. And you know me, Richard. Mike Baxter, remember?"
"I do not think I remember you, Mike." The man bent forward and gazed at his nametag. "But if you are indeed Mike Baxter, you will please go back into the gym."
The man had an accent. So, aside from Richard being dead, the accent was another reason why this was not Richard Saunders. Mike couldn't see his face due to the mask, but he noticed that his hands were dark. He must be a party-crasher along with his other two friends, Capone and Eastwood.
All of a sudden, he could hear a commotion coming from the gym: shouting, heavy footsteps—like people running, a couple of screams. He figured some rowdy fun was just starting up, as it usually did at these reunions. He was a little disappointed that he was going to miss it. But, he had some rowdy fun of his own coming to him once they got home, so that was some consolation.
"We're leaving now, whoever you are. I don't know what you mean by telling me we have to go back into the gym." Mike grabbed Cindy's hand, turned, and headed toward the school's front door at a brisk pace. That guy was nuts.
Mike was looking to his side, trying to see if the reaper was following them, when he heard Cindy gasp and felt her stop dead in her tracks. He looked in the direction she was looking. Another reaper stood just inside the front door, holding a machine gun pointed right at them.
Mike whirled around. The other reaper behind them now had a gun out too. Mike recognized both guns as Uzis. These weapons could shred them to pieces in a matter of a second or two. He felt Cindy's hand trembling in his. Or was that his hand?
"What do you guys want?" Mike asked, feeling his mouth quickly turning to sandpaper.
The eerie-looking mask answered. "I have already told you." He nodded his head back down the hall. "The gym—now!"
Chapter 31
David Samson loved the sound of creaking bed springs. He couldn't enjoy sex unless he pounded hard enough to hear the springs, or even just the banging of the headboard against the wall. Those sou
nds always reinforced his feeling of power, and of course the absence of power from the woman underneath.
Tonight the woman underneath was Fadiyah. She was always a convenient distraction when he needed to calm down. She wasn't his woman as the other men thought she was; she was just obedient, beautiful and available. David didn't have one woman of his own; he had many women and most of them were just white whores. Fadiyah was a whore too, but a whore for Allah. She had convinced herself as a young girl in the West Bank that she was performing his work. All by herself, using her whoring and killing skills, she had been directly responsible for the deaths of no less than fifteen Mossad agents before she left the Middle East to assume her new duties in Canada. She was a loyal and skillful soldier. David knew only too well that if she thought he was a threat, she was capable of killing him with her bare hands within mere seconds.
Normally David would be ashamed of himself for fucking an Arab woman—he considered that slumming. White women were more satisfying to him. Fucking a whitey gave him the same kind of pleasure that an act of revenge or retaliation brought. It was a feeling of accomplishment— something he had been denied during a large part of his life in Canada. Going all the way back to the days when he was seen as a loser and a dirty little Arab.
But Fadiyah could not be considered slumming by any stretch of the imagination. David gazed down at the goddess lying beneath him: her Cleopatra-like face, green eyes and long black hair. Her skin was silky smooth and her shoulders and thighs perfectly sculpted—a subtle hint of all the training and deadly abilities she possessed in the muscle memory of her body. David found it rather exhilarating having sexual control over a woman whose killing skills were as deadly as his. It made an orgasm much more ecstatic than he ever experienced with the white sluts.