Taming Quinky Qerri

PROLOGUE

Long ago, in an ancient land known as Idyllion, a delightful princess was born in the uppermost spire of a castle precipitously situated on a craggy mountainside overlooking exquisite and expansive Loch Ness and the meandering valleys of the Scottish highlands. Her name was Qerri, which means enchanted.

Her mother was the beautiful Princess Caitlin, wayward and famously licentious teenage daughter of the Celtic king of the province. Her father, of even loftier nobility, was Alemanes, visiting king of Sisamati, a once thriving but, sadly, doomed civilization on the hidden face of the moon. How those two got together and produced a daughter is a luscious story for a later chapter. What is important right now for the purposes of our tale is this: Princess Qerri was (and is) a most peculiar blend of lunar genetic qualities and earthly ones. And that manifests itself in the some pretty odd ways, hardly the least of which is her age, which is... well, about twenty-four or so (give or take).

You see, time passes many times faster up there than down here. And, being blessed with a generous portion of her father’s lunar genes, that means young Qerri, here on earth, has aged very, very, VERY slowly by our terrestrial way of reckoning. Indeed, a thousand of our years would pass before she even reached puberty. And that is why she is still around today, a young woman barely out of her teens. Exactly how far is a little uncertain. She doesn’t actually know how old she is; somewhere along the line she counted her ten fingers and her ten toes and then added on a random number and came up with “about 24.” So, she and Creek decided that was close enough. Twenty-four it would be.

Qerri’s physiology, too, is decidedly topsy-turvy. Her lithe little body, being half earthling and half moonling, wound up a hybrid of girl features and boy features—but both stunted and underdeveloped. And then there’s her psychology, which can only be described as a scrambled mess of quirks and idiosyncrasies, most merely amusing and cute, but others ranging from irresponsible and erratic, to socially improper, to outright frightful. Oh, she is astoundingly lovely to say the least, and the most wonderful, sweet, loving adoptive daughter a footloose young guy could ever dream of inheriting. But, as Creek was to discover (and you soon will as well), the pixie maiden behind those big eyes, mischievous grin and dark flowing mane is unbelievably naïve, uninhibited and immature. ... And she regresses like clockwork each month to a childlike state (drippy incontinence and all)! ... And, every so often, whenever the moon and her hormones happen to align themselves in just a certain way, hapless Qerri Anne, carefree boy-crazy, girl-crazy indie hippie chick suddenly develops superpowers and becomes her alter ego, Princess Qerri of the RomantiQuest, in pursuit of her calling—to do good and save someone’s day. .

Yes, our beloved princess is an old soul, a very old soul indeed. Yet, at the same time, she is a clueless newbie at being a modern earth girl. Okay, so honestly? Let’s face it; she is a bit of a hot mess. But Qerri will be just fine—and that is all because one moonlit wintry night she found her way into a pulsating disco dance club and into the safe, loving arms of the caregiving daddy of her destiny, a charming young bachelor named Creek. And so our story begins...

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CHAPTER 1

Creek glanced at the charge on his phone. Nineteen percent and dropping. The cousins had been chatting for nearly an hour, which was a good forty-five minutes longer than usual. They were pretty close as cousins go, childhood buddies, in fact. But Creek was not much of a phone person and was hardly one for long, drawn-out chit-chats, even on a good day. And this one had come at a most inopportune time, just as he was wrangling with daughter issues...again.

On this particular blustery winter’s eve Creek’s normally laid-back demeanor was already frazzled by having spent the day multitasking a whirlwind of multiple mini-crises, and his patience was thin when notoriously long-winded Marcus had called out of the blue to bend his ear with breaking news about something or other which had just occurred in their family. Mark was a bit of a gossip monger, so he always had some item of breaking news to pass around. This one, however, actually did sound interesting enough to pique Creek’s attention; it had dollar signs attached! It would seem that Marcus had caught wind of a sudden turn of events which, he was convinced, could lead to an unexpected windfall of sorts for the two of them. But, as he spoke, Qerri was whining loudly from across the living room.

“Hang on a sec, Mark,” Creek barked as he tossed his phone onto the sofa and turned with a stern scowl to the clump of flannel rolled up by the warmth of the dwindling fireplace. Her face was buried in the pages of something entitled Mizz, and the only thing visible was a well-slobbered thumb in her mouth.

“No thumbs, panda poo! Stop that! You’re ruining your smile. I’m gonna put you in braces, you wait!”

“Can I get black ones?” the flannel clump mumbled around a wet, half-painted thumb.

“I don’t think they make black braces, except maybe at Halloween.”

“How about ones with rattlesnake fangs?”

“Qerri, I’m on the phone. If you don’t shut up, I’m going have the dentist install a king-sized retainer in your big mouth.”

“How come?”

“So I can wire it shut, okay!”

“That’s rude,” she replied indignantly. “I have a cute little mouth, and you know it.”

She caught a glimpse of his scowl and yanked the blanket over her head. “It’s cold in here, master. Could you put on another log, please?”

“It’s daddy!” he corrected her tersely. “How many times do we have to go through this? This is not I Dream of Jeannie.”

“I know, daddy, I forgot again,” she whimpered. “I sowwy.” Faux baby talk and big eyes brimming with tears was always a winning combination, guaranteed to melt his heart; that was one of the very first things she had learned not so long ago when she first became a part of his decidedly bacheloresque household.

“Aw, don’t cry, sweetie,” he answered kindly with an exaggerated sad-sack frown. “You know I’m just trying to teach you the civilized ways of acceptable Earth society.”

“And you know I’m a slow learner, daddy-kins.”

“You’re doing just fine, Sugar Plum. I’m just not the most experienced tutor.”

“Sugar Plum was a fairy. I’m a princess.”

“You’re a twerp,” he growled, “and not a very well-behaved one.”

“I’m cold,” she repeated. “See, I have goose bumps all up and down my arms, and my legs, too. And look at how my little bobbsey twins are poking out!”

“I don’t need to see your bobbsey twins. Close your damned shirt! And I will stoke the fire.”

“Then will you brush my hair?”

“In a bit, after I get off the phone with Mark.”

“And my toothies, too?”

“You can brush your own teeth, Princess Twerp. In fact, why don’t you put your slippers back on and go get ready for bed. I’ll be there in a minute to help you.”

“Can I talk to Mark?” she asked. “He’s a hottie!”

“No, you can’t! Go get ready for bed, Qerri Anne!”

“Tell Mark I’ll be twenty-five in a few weeks, in case he wants to get married.”

“Mark’s already married. Go find your slippers and get ready for bed! ”

“And I’m totally stoked by his long surfer hair.”

“NOW!!”

In a mildly histrionic huff, Qerri tugged her hoodie over her wild mane of dark hair and disappeared; but only for an instant. Almost immediately, she peeked out playfully, like a tortoise emerging from its mobile casa, feigned a frown, and stuck her tongue out.

“Yes, sir,” she cooed sarcastically.

“I wuv you, master daddy Creek,” she added, only half-sarcastically, and too softly for him to hear.

Creek returned to the phone, shaking his head.

“That kid! She’s so... so in her own universe. Twenty-four, going on four! But what can I say, right?”

“Well, you took her in and fed her, Cuz,” Marcus laughed. “And you know what happens when you feed a stray. It’s totally there to stay. You adopted this one and it looks like she is your rescue mutt for life.” Creek groaned and Marcus added, “But she is kind of a cute one!”

“Listen, dude, she adopted me, okay? I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and inherited her little butt, crazy baggage and all. Speaking of which, I’m guessing, from what you’re telling me, that I must be about to inherit some old patch of weeds and wasteland.”

“That’s the rumor. Better stock up mosquito repellant and a snakebite kit.”

“Whatever. Listen, how about you take the hooterville haven and I’ll take the big castle in Wales?”

“No can do, magoo,” Marcus chuckled. “This lovely long-lost old aunt of ours—Doris or whatever—apparently made it clear to my mom that the married boys get the fancy estates—That would be me and Kimberly —and the lonesome bachelor gets the grizzly-infested badlands. And that would be you. But, hey, it’ll all be good. Just throw up a log cabin and an outhouse and you’ll be rocking like Daniel Boone, king of the wild frontier. And with your own little Pocahontas by your side!”

“I think that was Davy Crockett,” Creek corrected curtly, “but whatever. Hey, listen, dude, I gotta run! Qerri can’t find her slippers, and she’s out on the patio half naked and barefoot. The door’s wide open, there’s snow blowing in, and it’s like twenty-six degrees! She’s dancing and prancing around in circles, pretending to be a unicorn pony—and that is never a good sign! I guarantee I’m going to be mopping up an accident if I don’t get her to the bathroom pronto! So I’ll call you mañana, okay? But find out whatever you can about that deal. It sounds a little fishy, but who knows, right? Okay, later, man.”

Whether or not an unexpected inheritance was destined to change Creek’s life remained to be seen. But for certain his carefree bachelor days were about to be flipped upside down. And it all had begun on a particular night barely over a year earlier with a very mysterious sequence of events. That was the night Creek’s path was to serendipitously cross Qerri’s and their young lives would become eternally intertwined in the strangest and most inextricable way.

He was spinning dance tunes five or six nights a week at a popular college hangout called the Fickle Fox, a fun gig for any footloose single guy who did not demand a real social life or any particular desire to spend evenings on the couch watching “Friends” or Monday Night Football. But Creek was not a huge TV buff anyway, and deejaying paid well. And he was good at it. So the tip jar stayed full and he stayed at it, night after night, year after year—although he did sometimes wonder what it might be like to settle down and marry, have a family and enjoy a real life, where the days are filled with sunshine and the nights with... well, something other than smoke-filled dance floors and horny lager-logged frat rats. He might even have a chance, he imagined, to play his guitar more, or do some racquetball, work on a pet project or two, and savor nature and the big countryside with a wife and kids. Or even travel to the far side of the world and back. But, no, for now, life for him consisted of extended-mix Chic vinyl, providing ambience for hormone-driven trysts, and sleeping until noon. Not that bad a gig if you can get it, he figured.

There was another plus to it. His on-again off-again girlfriend Sandra Kay happened to work there as well. She was the head waitress and, as such, more than almost anyone else, had her finger on the pulse of the place, and her watchful eye was on everything that went on around there. Nothing inside or outside the Fickle Fox got past Sandra Kay. Her relationship with Creek, unfortunately, was relegated to being a relatively casual one. Their awkward work hours and her school schedule left little time for dating, so their time together was invariably hurried and seeing one another was generally from across a crowded dance floor. So, perhaps it was inevitable that they would gradually drift apart, their romantic thing succumbing to the trials and tribulations that so often toss things onto the rocks for dating couples trying to make a go of it amid the turbulence of the hyper-social, spirits-charged nightclub scene. But they were on the same wavelength in so many ways; and, so, best friends they would remain.

Creek and Sandra’s friendship would remain a solid one, even if a more lasting intimate relationship was not in the cards for the moment. Waiting tables for her was never more than a short-term way to pay the bills and keep life tolerable until she finished college. She would go on to graduate with honors and promptly take a position with a law firm in the big city as a legal secretary. There would come a time when she would bid him “see ya soon” with a kiss and move on with her life. But even still they would continue to remain in touch almost weekly. Their towns weren’t far apart, after all; so whenever he had a craving for a home cooked lasagna dinner or she needed a car fix, their bond of friendship would bring them together once more. And it was precisely that symbiotic bond of friendship that was about to send Creek’s happy-go-lucky life into a tailspin and provide the starting point for our tale. For once upon a time there strolled into the Fickle Fox a shy, barefoot, stringy-haired waif of a hippie chick who was a princess. And her name was Qerri.

Creek arrived a little before eight and weaved his way through the line of Thursday night patrons waiting at the front door to be I.D.’d and stamped. Most of these early arrivers were regulars he knew pretty well; and noticing he still had several minutes before his shift would begin, he stopped to exchange small talk with a young couple he knew as Kati and Clyde.

“There sure seem to be a lot of people milling around the parking lot tonight,” observed Kati as she gave Creek a friendly hug.

“Yeah, guess they’re waiting for the moon to disappear,” Creek replied.

“Oh, hey,” said Clyde. “Is that eclipse tonight? I forgot all about it.”

Creek glanced at the clock above the doorman’s head. “Let’s see, it’s 7:48, and it’s supposed to start happening at 8:22, I think.”

“So all those geeks are just going to stand around in the cold waiting to see it?” commented Kati sarcastically. “Not me. I’ve seen a thousand lunar eclipses, and they’re kind of nothing.”

“I know, I hear you,” Creek replied. “This one, though, is supposed to be unusual. I think it’s called a Beaver eclipse or something like that. I don’t know why, but they say it only happens every century or two.”

A guy standing in the line nearby overheard that discussion and chimed in with another tidbit.

“Yeah, I saw something on the news about that. It’s a special kind of full moon that happens when the moon is at its furthest distance from earth. And beavers love to build their winter nests by that unusually hazy kind of light. Apparently, though, it is very rare for a total eclipse to happen during a Beaver full moon, like once a century. And they were saying that, since the moon is so far away, the tides are weaker than normal, and some animals that are instinctively guided by the tides can become very sad and disoriented. Then, if you add an eclipse on top of it, they can get really loony and even go berserk.”

“Berserk? Ya think?” laughed Creek. “Well, I don’t know what or who would be guided by tides; but whatever they are, let’s hope they aren’t loony in a bad way, as in vicious or carnivorous!” He bid adieu to the patrons in the queue and headed on inside and out of the chilly draft of the open doorway, adding a grin and a parting admonishment: “Ya’ll watch out for those werewolves tonight!”

He grabbed a beer at the bar, gave Sandra Kay a quick kiss, and proceeded to take his place up in the elevated deejay booth. Switching off the prerecorded cassette, he put on a jazzy instrumental by Chic called “Savoir Faire” and began putting the records and CD’s in order for the night’s festivities. Little by little, the tables below were filling up and the waitresses were taking orders. Thursday was college night, the popular weekly shindig when kids from the local junior colleges would hit town and converge at the Fox to let their hair down, fraternize and party. It was also the night the bouncers and rent-a-cops dreaded most. Things usually got rowdy, fights were common, and there were always underage high schoolers trying to sneak in. Lately, too, there had been increased tension on Thursday nights as members of a local biker club had recently taken to showing up to harass the regulars and try to pick up the coeds.

At 8:20, someone reminded Creek that the eclipse was about to begin, and since the action on the dance floor had yet to get underway, he figured he might as well sneak out for a moment and check out this so-called Beaver moon. He slapped on his trusty bathroom break standby, a long extended mix of “Rapper’s Delight” by Sugar Hill Gang, and hopped down from the booth. Behind him was a door that led through a storeroom and then another that exited out onto the back alley, and Creek quickly slipped out that way to have a look.

With no one else around, he watched with awe and some amount of amusement as, right on schedule, the shining orb slowly emerged from a spooky patchwork of clouds and began to slip into hiding behind earth’s shadow. As full moons go, it was disappointingly small and rather ordinary. But, then again, this was supposedly the time when it was farthest away. Creek recalled what that guy had said about tide-driven creatures feeling lonely and disoriented and he shivered for a second as the whole world began to grow eerily dark and more ominous with each passing second. He actually was finding this to be more intriguing than he had imagined, and just a tad spooky.

A faint breeze came out of nowhere and whispered through the alley like a ghost, adding an icy chill to the already brisk November night. This feels like Halloween all over again, he was thinking to himself, as he instinctively glanced up and down the alleyway to make sure there were no werewolf eyes peering at him from the moonless shadows. He shivered again. Okay, that was fun, he muttered to himself, hurriedly returning to the warmth and security of the club.

Back in his booth overlooking the dance floor, Creek fired up the first set of dance music, keyed the mic and welcomed everyone to a big Thursday night at the Fickle Fox. He was unaware that, indeed, he actually was being watched. No, there were no werewolves. But something equally strange was afoot, off to the side of his booth and back in the corner, away from the crowd, at a rarely used table the waitresses called Number Zero. Creek was too busy to notice the thin unassuming figure who was seated there, all alone in the dim shadows, dark brooding eyes fixed intently on him.

At table Zero, quietly sipping a tall glass of something that looked like water, her legs and feet bare and jiggling ever so slightly, sat an exceptionally youthful-looking woman with a skinny, boyish figure, her face partly hidden by a cascading mane of long, dark unkempt hair. Silently in the shadows she sat, watching him. Creek had not noticed, being focused on the business at hand. But Sandra Kay had. This was her section and she had wasted no time in alerting security that there was a suspicious-looking kid over in the corner who just might be underage.

Presently, Big Eddy, everyone’s favorite bouncer, came sauntering through the crowd and strolled nonchalantly up to table Number Zero. Eddy was a body-trained wrestler, a hulk of a black guy with muscles the size of freight cars and a grin that would light up a room. He was hard to miss in a crowd and Creek saw him immediately; now he began to pay attention. He looked off to his left, curious to see what was going on, and, for the first time, noticed the girl. Odd, he thought. He had never seen her here before. She looked terribly young. Why was she alone, sitting in the dark? Why was she barefoot on a frigid night like tonight? And why was she staring at him?

Eddy, as imposing as he looked, was famously mister affable, and he approached her with his usual friendly charm—that is, until he caught a glimpse of Sandra Kay glaring at him from two tables away with a disapproving scowl. That told him it was time for a tougher stance. Clearing his throat, Eddy’s deep voice was audible all the way over to the deejay booth as he proceeded to advise this mysterious young woman that shoes are required as part of the dress code (never mind that the college girls kicked theirs off all the time to line dance). And, of course, he wanted to see her I.D. After all, she did look hardly a day older than fifteen.

As hard as he tried not to stare, Creek found himself drawn to this creature’s sphinxlike beauty. She was petite and elfish, more closely resembling a Japanese anime figure than the typical corn-fed coeds he was used to. She was wearing what looked to be a black silk miniskirt, and her long flowing dark hair cascaded haphazardly around her bare, narrow shoulders, raining down on her shapeless, boyish bosom and her low-cut, flower-adorned blouse, rather sloppily unbuttoned in front where cleavage should have been, like a tropical island waterfall over a lava garden.

Her dark eyes literally shimmered, even in this dimly lit ambience, reflecting and refracting the colored dance floor lights, like the mirror ball that hung overhead. Ringed with only a hint of makeup, they shone with a natural and exquisite beauty that reminded him of that mysterious hide-and-seek moon he had just watched moments before: emerging, disappearing briefly, and then returning promptly to its rightful place among the stars. But these were sad and haunting eyes. Their sparkle was stunning, yet, at the same time, strangely distant and melancholy. Her lips, too—luscious, natural and unadorned as they were—seemed to exhibit a profound childlike poutiness. The girl truly looked troubled and scared.

Indeed, it was this countenance that affected Creek most deeply. Something was not right. She appeared startled by all of this, even a little frightened, and seemed to be, he was thinking, almost on the verge of tears. He felt sorry for her, but he was not sure what he should do. And then he noticed something else. Adorning her shimmering espresso locks, almost too tiny to be noticed but adding to her exotic charm, was a single bluish-white flower. Even from a distance, he recognized it, he knew exactly what that was, for it had been his grandmother’s favorite. She had always told him that it bloomed only at night and was an ancient symbol of intuition, delicate femininity and romance. She had always called it a Moonflower.

This exquisite young thing seemed so feminine, a delicate flower herself in every way. Down below, like stalks of dune grass swaying in a breeze, her lithe, untanned legs and unadorned toes were moving with the rhythm of the music, but with a slightly nervous wiggle. Unencumbered by shoes or stockings, they were highlighted by a single jeweled ankle bracelet that sparkled like diamonds each time she wiggled her foot. And it was that cute wiggle that caused Creek to really take notice. Bare feet and long legs, after all, were his favorite parts of any girl. But the way hers were nervously twitching and undulating struck him as quite notable, and oddly sexy.

Big Eddy spent two or three minutes next to her table conversing with her. By now, however, with the crowd partying at full throttle and the music pounding from the array of super-sized subwoofers ringing the dance floor and suspended from the rafters, it was impossible for Creek to make out what was being said over in that dark corner. He presumed things must have ironed themselves out, though, as Eddy had gone back to the front door of the club and left her alone once more. She must have produced an I.D., Creek supposed, or else managed to sweet-talk Eddy into backing down (although she did not strike him as the talkative type). More likely she had won his sympathy with her shyness and big teary eyes. In any case, she was alone at Zero once again and sitting stiffly, like a statue, sipping her drink and staring toward the deejay booth, all the while tapping her bare toes to the music and rocking back and forth nervously in her chair. Creek returned to his mixer and tried to direct his attention to the dance floor. But his curiosity was fighting him. He could not help himself. He had to turn and give her another glimpse.

This had been one of those peculiar passing moments that briefly grabs your attention but then is summarily dismissed as no big deal…until you think a little more about it. There were a couple of things that still gave him pause. For one thing, she now appeared a bit less melancholy than before. She had removed the little lavender flower from her hair and was holding it in her hand, and there was even the slightest hint of a shy little smile. Somewhat awkwardly, he politely returned it, adding a little wave.

Most notably, she seemed more lonely and forsaken than ever, even as the rest of the house was abuzz with laughter and the lively social rituals of a typical Thursday night crowd of imbibing college kids, all of them roughly in her general age group. It was not just that she was seated alone here in the club, but something about her seemed to suggest that she was alone in the world. No one was around her, and no one was paying any attention to her, not even his friend, Sandra, whose section this was and who was never one to ignore a customer, especially one she’d just threatened with expulsion minutes before (and especially one that was still here and making googly eyes at her boyfriend!). So strange. On the other hand, this was table Number Zero, the infamous dead zone. And this was beaver eclipse night. So, who knows...?

By nine-thirty the Fickle Fox was brimming with college kids and the dance floor overflowing with Thursday night revelers. Every table was full, including Numbers One and Two, the ones between the deejay booth and that one way back in the corner, Table Zero, thus blocking Creek’s view of his intriguing new admirer. In any case, he was too busy to concern himself with that matter any further. One thing he had not noticed was the group that had taken occupancy of Numbers One and Two, immediately to his left.

A tough bunch of out-of-towners, a gang of bikers and their chicks, had been showing up in recent weeks, bent on causing trouble. And they had sprawled themselves out right in front of little Zero girl. There were half a dozen of them, and they had her surrounded and essentially hemmed in. Pitchers of beer were being downed one right after the other, and the group was becoming louder and more obnoxious by the minute. And, then, it happened! Creek heard a crash over that way and the sound of breaking glass. And his protective instincts took over.

Fearing for the girl’s safety, without thinking, he literally leaped down the steps and was sprinting to her rescue when a monstrous hulk of a guy with tattooed biceps and the aroma of sweaty leather stopped him and shoved him to the ground. Creek was not a violent man, but he was no wimp either. And his anger was fiery! In an instant he was back on his feet and ready for action. Things were unfurling rapidly! The first thing he spotted was the girl in the corner, looking at him with desperate eyes and mouthing the word help. Before he could respond, however, he saw Big Eddy making his way quickly across the dance floor with a short squatty security guard in full uniform right behind. Now, for the first time, Creek could hear what was being said over at the young woman’s table.

“That scrawny little bitch ain’t got no underwear!” a large, almond-skinned female was barking.

“Ain’t no bitch!” another equally intimidating-looking woman replied in a thick accent. She had the girl pinned against her chair and was attempting to forcibly lift the front of her mini. “Check it out! She’s got business!”

That’s when the security team arrived to break up the altercation.

His song was about to end, so Creek had no choice but to return to his booth and get back to deejaying. He hastily straightened his mussed hair and brushed off his shirt as he peered off to the side in time to see that several people had gathered around the scene. The uniformed rent-a-cop had already escorted the troublemakers from the club, leaving Eddy to console the tearful mystery girl. Sandra Kay, meanwhile, had come over to investigate and, after some time spent looking around the table and under the chairs, obviously annoyed, she was now on her phone to someone.

After a few moments, Eddy took the young woman by the arm, helped her to her feet, and began leading her away. She did not seem to be hurt, but she was walking slowly, still barefoot, and with a noticeably awkward gait. Not staggering really, but just stiffly and haltingly with her feet further apart than normal. And she was holding the hem of her skirt up around her thighs. Creek was perplexed.

Why was she wobbling like that? She had hardly touched her drink, so she couldn’t be drunk. Was she on drugs? Or suffering from some other impairment? Why was Eddy needing to help her along? But then, as he watched with curiosity, she suddenly stopped and turned back to look at him. He could see that her eyes were still glazed over from crying. As those eyes met his, she reached out her hand that was still clutching the Moonflower which had been in her hair and held it out so he could see. It was an obvious gesture, but what it meant he could not fathom. It appeared that she was about to drop the flower onto the floor when Eddy tugged on her other arm, pulled her back around, and continued hustling her toward the front entrance. Almost immediately things grew even weirder when a busboy showed up brandishing a rag, a mop and a bucket, and began mopping the floor around and underneath her table.

What the hell was that about? Creek wondered. Her glass was still on the table and mostly full, so apparently she hadn’t spilt it. But then, his mouth dropped open! The busboy was now using a spray disinfectant and his rag to wipe down every inch of the seat of the chair where she had been sitting. Creek was utterly dumbfounded. Now he was beginning to get it. That explained everything. Now he knew what her problem had been. Holy shit!

Just as the two reached the front door, the girl turned back one last time, and sent him a little wave from across the room. And Creek returned it (with a very subtle, almost undiscernible kiss).

The remainder of the evening passed without incident. No fights. No police raids. And no more Qerri. Table Zero remained as empty as it had begun, a black hole in the corner of a galactic gala. And now the party was winding down.

Creek announced last call and summoned everyone out to the dance floor for one last go around with the Electric Slide, a popular line dance, set this time to Billy Idol’s disco thumping remake of “Mony Mony”. Following that, the lights went low and he announced “lady’s choice”, signifying a nice slow set of belly-rubbing ballads and one last chance for romance for any young fillies seeking such, and brazen (or drunk) enough to do the asking. As the sweet sounds of Lionel Richie played and a slowly revolving galaxy of stars and spangles bathed the swaying dancers in soft, ethereal mirror ball majesty, Creek’s thoughts returned once more to the mysterious girl in the corner. Who was she? Is she alright?

He closed up shop, waited for the last of the patrons to leave, and walked slowly back to his truck. The air was frosty, the sky clear and awash with a billion constellations. For a moment, he paused to look skyward to take in the last visible vestige of that retiring old man in the moon, back from his ecliptic sideshow, and now receding sleepily beneath the shadowy hills and the chilly star-studded horizon of a crisp, clear November night. The old man, so full and radiant earlier, was now waning, eager no doubt to slip away to an unseen sanctuary on the other side of the world. He seemed so cold and pale now. So small, so distant.

Maybe... thought Creek, as he crossed the darkened parking lot and paused to glance up one more time. Maybe she hitched a ride with him and is out there somewhere, smiling back with a twinkle of moonlight in her eye. I hope she is in a place of peace. I hope he keeps her safe. And I hope she found her shoes.

He reached in his pocket for his keys as he walked up to the side of his truck, and he was about to unlock the door when something caught his eye. There, on the windshield, wrapped in a napkin and very carefully tucked beneath the windshield wiper, was a single, short-stemmed white Moonflower. He removed it gently, put it to his nose and inhaled the aroma of its petals. He was sure he detected a hint of Gucci Rush in the mix as well; it was the intoxicating fragrance of intuition, delicate femininity and romance that went to his very heart and soul.

He shook his head and smiled as he placed the flower carefully in his shirt pocket. Once more, he gazed up at the star-filled night sky and that retreating old man in the moon, far away in the distance, hovering over the horizon. As he did so, he could have sworn he caught a wink. And he winked back. For he knew the girl from Zero was safe.

Creek glanced at the clock on the bedside table as he crawled under the comforter and propped himself up on a couple of pillows, trying to decide whether to read a book, watch TV, or call it a night. Two fifty-five AM.And what a night it had been! Drowsy as he was, he could not get that mysterious girl off his mind. There was a back story there, he was certain, but he couldn’t imagine what she was about. Little did he know that he was about to find out.

He reached over and turned off the lamp, and had just rolled over and adjusted his pillow when his phone nearly vibrated off the table, startling him out of his sleepy-eyed nether land. It was Sandra Kay calling. They knew each other’s schedules well and she would never call him at three in the morning about anything—not unless something serious was up. And he knew as soon as he picked up that something was up. She sounded distressed, very distressed indeed.

“You know that barefoot zombie chick from Zero?” she began, her voice trembling, "The one we threw out?”

“Uh, I don’t know her, but okay. What’s up, babe?”

“She’s here!” Sandra was almost hyperventilating.

“Where?” Creek asked as he reached over and turned the lamp back on.

“She’s HERE! With me!” Sandra replied frantically.

“Where?” he repeated, puzzled.

“HERE, dammit! In my kitchen! I’m scared, Creek. And I don’t know what to do!”

“Wow!” was all he could think to say, trying to gather his wits about him.

“Oh, shit!” Sandra yelled suddenly. Creek could tell she had muffled the phone and was saying something to the girl in an anxious voice that was way out of character for her. And then, seconds later, she was back, and whispered something to him that was most unexpected and bizarre.

“She just peed on my floor!”

“She what?”

“Can you come over?” Sandra whispered between breaths, obviously fighting back tears.

“I’m on my way,” Creek replied, grabbing for his pants and exclaiming to himself:

OMG! Can this frigging night get any freakier?

Braq's note: Whenever you see an asterisk (*), it means there is a back story or further explanation at qerri.net.