Wednesday, October 23, 2002

Mooseman and Garfunkel were chilling like villains. If they had dipped any harder they would have been in violation of section 85 of the temperature code. Their Members Only jackets were properly pressed and draped for maximum carnage. Their sideburns were groomed yet slightly ruffled. Their aviator sunglasses and belt buckles were perfectly centered and shined to a buff not seen since the chariots of the Roman Empire.

"Is it me, or are we the two goddamm biggest players ever to touch base on the 808?" crooned Mooseman in his signature baritone. Garfunkel flashed his patented k-swiss judo sign. There was absolutely no doubt that their pimp factor was at least 5 and most likely 6, totally shattering the scale established by OG Ratbone in 1957.

They headed out the front door of their East Side condominium duplex. The children running through the sprinklers outside parted ways like the red sea in awe and admiration. It was as if you could hear a pin drop. A young mother wearing jean shorts and a tank top that said "sugar and spice" batted her eyes and mouthed out the words "off the heezy" to them, smacking her lips. Their swagger and momentum allowed for only a slight nod and a lazy smile. There were bigger fish to fry.

The Yugo with chrome spiked rims and flames of purple and green was waiting in spot 22. The only spot allowed for true ballers. The booming system kicked in, and Pretty Boy Floyd, Leather Boys with Electric Toys, blasted from all 68 speakers throughout the fine piece of Eastern European engineering. The patent leather seats were reclined to the specified measurements of 3.8 and 4.2 respectively.

All that was left to do was let the vibe carry them. The games had begun, and their quarry had already caught their scent on the wind. But they weren't running. Oh no. They were waiting. With bated breath and heated engines. Revved to maximum capacity, deployed for ultimate satisfaction of the 69 Kings of the Pacific Rim.

And they were off, nothing left but the faint scent of Drakkar Noir and the telltale whistle of a nearby whipoorwhill, fluttering from tree to tree, looking for that which could no longer be found.