Chain Gang Cons vs Ass Rippers from Outer Space (1) (1001 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: compound_tales
Rating: 1.93 on 32 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2007-11-09 19:08:00 EST
(A Compound Tale)
"Yo, dude, what's your name, man? What's your handle, bro?"
ZD looked at the heavy white man. He saw yellow-orange skin and bruised flesh under each eye. As he turned so the man could read the name stenciled on his shirt, Zendejahs, he wondered how long this guy would last in the heat. He looked away. In the western sky was a bright light low on the horizon, a dazzling speck.
"Zen-DAY-haas? You like to be called Zen-DAY-haas?"
"Fuck off," ZD said. "I'm not looking for any friends."
"Oh," the man said, nodding his head while looking confused. "Oh yeah, I gotcha. Well anyway, I'm Blintzel. Harry Blintzel."
ZD and Blintzel were standing on the shoulder of an empty highway in the California desert. ZD looked up and down the line, figuring there were at least four dozen inmates out of CDC today.
"Hot," Blintzel said. "Only seven in the AM and it's already hot."
A tall and wiry black guy on the other side of Blintzel let out a laugh. "It's called Indian Summer, cheese puff."
There was a time when ZD would have laughed his ass of at a crack like that. Blintzel really did look like a cheese puff. Who gave a shit if the man had jaundice or not? It was funny. ZD didn't laugh, though. There was a long day ahead, the ass-end of a long week working in the sun. He was almost looking forward to spending the weekend in his cell. Almost.
A pair of San Bernardino County Sheriff's Deputies was coming down the line pushing a hand cart. Behind them was the bus that had dropped all the cons on the side of the road, and the County Inmate Services truck that carried Deputies and food and water and tools.
County Inmate Services was a pilot program based on similar programs in places like Arizona. The San Bernardino Sheriff was up for reelection. He wanted to show the public that he could do more than the usual catch and release. He created good old fashioned chain gangs, using prisoners from the Central Detention center. They picked up litter and buried indigents. They pulled weeds and painted county buildings. Today they were doing a sweep-job.
ZD didn't exactly get off on the work. He wasn't one of those guys who went squirrelly if he couldn't work out. As long as he had a book to read he could keep his cool, but the cells in the CDC were small, and when you were on a CIS detail, you had nothing around you for miles.
The food and water were kept to a minimum. There were no snacks or sweets or smokes. While it wasn't exactly Cool Hand Luke, at the tail end of summer ZD saw two men keel over dead from the heat and a third one flip out and start raving he could see God's Finger pointing down at him, but maybe that guy had been a head case to begin with.
Inmates had to pay five bucks out of their corrections accounts if they wanted to see the nurse, and since the nurse in this case was an old man with paper white skin and a bottom lip as purple and slack as a slab of beef liver most inmates didn't go see him; he came to them when they passed out in the heat or turned an ankle or sliced a hand open picking up broken beer bottles.
The bus left CDC at six sharp, and that made for a long day of hard work, but ZD was in the best shape of his life and the work made the days pass quickly.
The CDC held an average of 900 inmates. Most of them were county inmates like ZD, guys who had done stupid shit and were now in limbo awaiting a trial date. A third of them were Federal inmates being transferred from point A to point B. The work crews were county only, and despite the cries of profiteering and human rights violations from liberal mouths who had nothing better to do with their time than compare CIS details to slavery while trying to take away the time ZD could spend outside feeling the sun warm his skin or wind lifting his hair, the program had grown, and the word was that a female detail was about a mile down the road.
The work crews usually contained more fuckups than psychos. There were always going to be dust-ups, but at least ZD wasn't working alongside child rapists or serial killers. At least he didn't think he was.
ZD had been in the County Detention Center lockup for four and a half months, and was told he could expect to wait another four before he got in front of a judge. He had been between construction jobs, riding out another building slump in the Golden State, when some guy running for a local Board of Supervisors opening had stopped into the bar where ZD had been knocking back shots and drafts. Supervisorman had rambled on about how he was going to change things in the neighborhood and how he was here for the working man, and ZD couldn't help but notice how pink and soft Supervisorman's hands were. As Supervisorman had made imploring gestures with his hands during his little speech ZD realized Supervisorman's fingers looked like a nest of baby rats, pink and soft and small and hairless.
At the time it seemed perfectly reasonable that ZD should unzip his jeans, fill an empty pint glass with piss, and toss it at Supervisorman. Supervisorman wasn't amused. He charged ZD with assault and at trial his assault charge suddenly bloomed into a hate crime charge that left ZD's head spinning. He vaguely remembered Super man's lawyer announcing that Super man was gay and letting everyone in on the score when he pondered the notion of "yoo-rine coming from the pennis and honestly, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do we really need visual aids to indicate the centrality of the male organ of generation in gay life and culture and the awb-vee-uss insult directed at my client?"
ZD's twenty-four year old public defender had let out a single snort of laughter like a schoolboy and that had been it for ZD.
Now he was standing in the red-gold light of a rising sun, preparing for a day of sweeping windblown debris off of a forgotten desert highway and already breaking a sweat under the stark white polyester CIS issue shirt and pants.
That light was still hanging in the sky, eye-wateringly bright. ZD wondered if it was bigger. Maybe it was a plane. Maybe it was Venus or some shit like that. Wasn't Venus the Morning Star? Or was it the Mourning Star? He couldn't remember, and he gave each one of his shoulders a quick roll, breaking out the tension that had started climbing up his back like a phantom cat with its claws out.
ZD glanced at the wiry black guy and read the name stenciled on the man's chest above his inmate ID number. Greavy. He looked the other way. The two deputies were closer now, pushing a hand cart holding a big plastic bin. The hand cart was full of shackles. Leg irons. The men were being shackled together in threes.
Greavy started to sing. His voice was raw, but strong. "That's the sound of the men, workin' on a—"
"Shut the fuck up," one of the deputies said. His name plate read Slattery. He was short and wide. He had red hair and small brown eyes and the kind of red sweaty face that made him look like he was exerting himself even when he was standing still.
The other deputy paused, and gave the red-haired deputy a look.
That's rare, ZD thought. Usually these guys stick together. He looked at the other deputy's name plate. It was just below the flag, and across from the gold star. Johnson. ZD decided he'd rather mess with a hair-trigger asswipe like Slattery than get into it with Johnson. The man was very tall, the tight crop of curls on his head going gray at the sides. Some guys might have seen an older black man turning to fat. ZD saw patience and judgment in Deputy Johnson's eyes, and a lot of leftover muscle on that big frame.
Must have been a fucking monster back in the day, ZD thought. A guy like that is gonna do a slow boil and a lot of thinking, but if you got an ass-whupping coming, he won't hold back once he starts in.
"Oh shit," sickly-skinned Blintzel said. "Oh shit oh shitting-shit. I don't wanna be middle man."
ZD did a quick count down the line. Greavy must have done the same, because the wiry man laughed out loud.
When the deputies reached ZD, he watched the sky while they attached a cuff to his right leg. They attached a cuff to Greavy's left leg. Blintzel was the middleman, with a cuff on each leg, binding him to ZD and Greavy and all of them together. There were five feet of heavy chain between each con.
No one wanted to be middleman. You got pulled in both directions. That made it hard to work. Even harder to piss. You got bumped and swatted and stepped on. And you had the transponder attached to one leg, five extra bulky pounds of weight throwing off your step under the hot sun.
The two deputies kept the straps on their service pieces the entire time they went down the line slapping on leg irons.
One other deputy, and the bus driver, lounged by the bus and the truck, handguns neatly tucked out of sight. The nurse was lurking inside the truck among brooms and rakes and dustpans and garbage bags. He hated he sun.
There was no need for armed guards standing around holding shotguns. There was nothing out here but desert. Desert and fifteen transmitters tracking fifteen sets of cons chained together.
Nowhere to run to baby, nowhere to hide.
"The fuck is that shit?" ZD saw Greavy raise an arm and point west. "Southwest Airlines gotta fuckin train their pilots to reconnize a airport from shit-all desert, you know what I'm sayin?"
The light was very bright, very big, and moving toward them.
Deputy Johnson murmured, "That shit gonna come down on our heads?"
There were the dregs of the south in his voice, ZD thought, and then he thought, I like that line. ZD killed a lot of time in his cell writing stories. Stories from his childhood, shit going on at the CDC, dreams, whatever. He liked it when he came up with a line that made him smile. He wrote his stories in pencil, on scraps of paper. When they were done he flushed them down the john. Not when he was done, but when they were done. There was a difference.
He'd heard Johnson speaking in a normal tone earlier, and the man didn't have much of an accent. In the slow, soft murmur ZD had heard owah haids.
"Come-on, enough fucking star-gazing and wool-gathering," Slattery said. "You shitbags got some work to do."
A sound was filling the air as Slattery spoke, a steam kettle whistle mixed with a freight train rumble.
Tiny sparkling fragments were falling away from the main body of brightness like snowflakes made out of the sun.
There was a cracking sound that filled the sky, like a dry stick being snapped in two up against your ear. Most of the cons jumped or stumbled backward. A few tried to run and then hit the dirt when the guys on their chain held them back.
"Oh, come on you ladies, you pussies," Slattery bellowed, "Come the fuck on. You never seen a meteor before?"
Some of the men hit the ground in threes as the brightness washed out the sun and they could feel the sound of its passing buffeting their skin.
"Oh, come on you shitheels, you got a better chance of getting a hummer from Christina Aguilera than you do getting hurt by a—"
There was a concentrated flash of white and a hissing sound and then Slattery was dropping down onto his knees, his jaw hanging slack and everything above his wiry red mustache a charred and smoking bowl.
Another of the sun-bright snowflakes hit the asphalt in front of ZD, who felt the impact through his boots. It tore a hole in the road and when it came to a rest it was smoking and sputtering, and as the white glow faded he saw that it was scrap of metal the size of a money clip.
Cons were screaming and bellowing, the screaming ones trying to curl up in balls on the shoulder and the bellowing ones trying to drag them away. The nurse was nowhere in sight, but the deputy who had driven the truck was standing close to the bus driver, and both men looked stricken.
That runaway engine roar and ear-piercing animal squeal still filled the air.
Greavy watched Slattery's body slump and fall on one side. "Never did like that muthafuckah anyways," he shouted.
Blintzel clutched his gut and then puked, heaving so hard that ZD could hear a distinct hoo-rah. Sounds just like a Marine, ZD thought.
Two big men came running from the far end of the line, dragging a middleman by the legs. The middleman was yelling for them to stop, his face already torn and bleeding from the bounce and drag against the loose gravel on the shoulder of the road.
The deputy who had driven the truck hauled himself up into the cab and started the engine. The truck jerked and then started rolling. The panel doors in the back of the truck were open and swinging wildly. The bus driver took a running jump and hauled his ass up into the back of the truck just as the nurse spilled out onto the road. ZD thought it looked like a routine from an old silent movie. The nurse landed on his ass and sat there rubbing the top of his head while the truck swerved away down the road leaving a trail of hand tools and cardboard boxes in its wake.
ZD turned and saw the big black cop, Johnson, standing tall in the center of the road. The deputy was watching the brightness that had passed overhead and was falling to ground, leaving behind a trail of white smoke.
The deputy sucked air, his chest and gut straining his uniform shirt, and then he let out a roar that equaled the thing falling out of the sky.
"EVERYONE DOWN, NOW!"
ZD dropped without thinking. He'd learned long ago that protesting against or ignoring a cop was an invite to an ass-kicking. If you didn't do anything wrong you had nothing to worry about when a cop told you to turn and spread, hands flat on the roof of the car. You'd soon be on your way. He saw that Greavy had bellied out in the dirt as well, and each of them reached up at the same time and yanked Blintzel down with them.
The big cop launched himself into the asphalt like he was diving into a pool.
There was a thud and a boom and a flash of light. All of the cons would have ringing ears afterward. A shower of rock and dust passed overhead.
ZD choked and coughed and figured this was what the people in the streets of lower Manhattan must have felt like when the towers came down and the relentless cloud of dust rolled over them.
Greavy cried, "Shit!" He sounded like a little kid.
ZD looked and saw two cons flying through the air like kites, one of then chained to a foot in a boot, the other chained to a whole leg and hips and a shank of meat with ribs sticking out of it. A metallic groan made him look the other way and he saw the school bus roll onto one side. There was a loud punk! and then the big flat gas tank under the bus had a hole in it, all the gas pissing out onto the dry road and leaving it slick.
A slab of stone as broad as a picnic table sliced through the air like a Frisbee. ZD watched it dwindle as it moved down the road, thinking it seemed to be following the truck. He heard a sound like an oil drum being hit with a wrench and then the truck was nothing but parts bouncing in every direction.
Dust continued to hang in the air until a weak gust of wind blew it away. Johnson was already up and ZD was trying to ignore the burned meat smell coming from what was left of Deputy Slattery's head.
ZD heard a chain jingling and saw Greavy step back from Slattery's body. The wiry man sat down beside Blintzel and slipped on the dead deputy's sunglasses.
"Whachoo think?"
"They definitely give you an air of authority," ZD said.
Deputy Johnson took two big steps and smacked the back of Greavy's head with an open palm. The sunglasses leaped from the wiry man's head and skittered across the road.
"Whachoo slappin mah black ass for?"
Johnson didn't say anything. He crossed his arms and looked down at Greavy.
Greavy gave Johnson a nervous smile. "S'up?"
Johnson stared.
ZD looked from Johnson to Greavy, and a glance up and down the now broken line of cons made him realize that the men were all fixated on Johnson, when moments before most of them had been in full-blown panic.
Sweat broke out on Greavy's face, washing away the dust. "Shit, niggah, what the fuck you want, man?"
Johnson spoke to Greavy in a low voice, and more than one con leaned forward to hear what he was saying. "If I have to ask, I'll have to hurt you."
Greavy looked up and down the line and forced out a laugh. His dark face was slick with sweat. He whispered, "Shit-fuckin muthafucka," and reached into the waistband of his white polyester pants. He retrieved a key ring and handed it to Johnson.
He pointed at the men in front of him, one, two, three.
"Zendejahs, Blintzel, Greavy. I want you to haul ass down the road and check the wreckage of the truck for water and a first aid kit."
Greavy spotted what looked like a thigh muscle on one side and a swatch of tanned skin and dark hair on the other and sputtered laughter through tight lips.
"And when you pass the nurse, tell him to get his old ass over here." Johnson turned away and started walking down the line, counting heads. He took his time.
ZD and the others walked a half mile, Blintzel grousing all the way. They passed a scatter of tools and smeared boxed lunches and twisted pieces of metal and rubber. They also passed the nurse, who was still sitting on his ass and thoroughly dead. They gathered up fourteen small bottles of water and a first aid kit containing band aids and a few tiny foil packs of disinfectant.
The three men sat down a moment, splitting a bottle of water between them.
"Look at that guy," ZD said, pointing down the road at the only surviving deputy. "How can he get up close and personal with those guys who got blown apart without hurling?"
Blintzel looked up. He had been sitting in a quiet daze, his yellow-orange hue having washed out to the color of ginger ale.
"You guy's haven't heard about Al Johnson? The man's been through some serious scrapes, starting with Vietnam, when he was a teenager."
"How the fuck you know that, cheese puff?
Blintzel shrugged. "There was stuff about him on the internet. On Snopes and the National Enquirer website." He saw Johnson turn back his way. He ducked his head and zipped his lip.
They returned to their spot on the side of the road while Johnson told them what was what.
Four sets of prisoners were missing, having run off into the desert in a panic. Twelve men... unless more of them had been struck by meteorites and their remains had been carried away by those still living. There were three dead men, four if you counted Deputy Slattery, all of them expiring from grotesque impact injuries.
"We don't have much water, no transportation and no medical help. My radio was in the truck, so we can't call for help. Our best course of action is to move down the road as quickly as possible, to the other CIS crew working out here today. With luck they will have transportation, or a radio. On your feet, fellas."
There were some muttered groans and protests.
Someone asked, "Which way we goin?"
Johnson pointed down the road in the direction of the meteor impact.
Someone else yelled, "Fug dat!"
Johnson sighed, as if reluctant to speak, and then he said, "The female work detail is down there."
All of the men got to their feet, helping those who were injured or still reeling from the explosion that had occurred in their intended direction.
"Hi-ho, hi-ho," Greavy said.
ZD didn't say anything, but the tension was creeping up his back again.
User Reviews
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2007-11-16 06:21:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by MANICMOTHER (user info) at 2007-11-14 15:56:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by wookie (user info) at 2007-11-14 15:49:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2007-11-13 13:19:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by DCWoody (user info) at 2007-11-12 23:29:21 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
found this flashing through my head several hours after I'd read it, so have a better rating.
--
Now THAT is a compliment, people.
Submitted by czwij (user info) at 2007-11-13 06:04:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
thanks for leaving this rapeless.
good story
Submitted by DCWoody (user info) at 2007-11-12 23:29:21 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
found this flashing through my head several hours after I'd read it, so have a better rating.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2007-11-12 09:18:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2007-11-11 10:23:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
When I have a spare year I will read that.
Submitted by beeltea (user info) at 2007-11-10 16:36:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
no more chain gangs? Too bad. Sweet post.
Submitted by DCWoody (user info) at 2007-11-10 15:56:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2007-11-10 15:11:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by haikumikoo (user info) at 2007-11-10 12:12:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
San Bernardino is a shit hole.
Submitted by triangle_man (user info) at 2007-11-10 11:59:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I know the spot
Submitted by beer-turtle (user info) at 2007-11-10 11:41:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
SHERIFF JOE!!!!
Even I have heard of this asshole.
He abuses power like crazy down there, ton and tons of articles about Good Ol' Joe Arpaio
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2007-11-10 10:41:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2007-11-09 23:37:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You're back in form!
FYI...a little real world input: I looked into prison labor for my political jurisdiction. The liability is too high should one of them escape or fuck up...according to the lawyers. So, chain gangs are pretty much a thing of the past.
--
That's what I thought, until...
"Some jurisdictions, such as Alabama and Arizona, have re-introduced the chain gang. In recent years, Maricopa County, Arizona, which is the county that covers Phoenix, Arizona, and its controversial sheriff Joe Arpaio, has drawn attention from human rights groups for its use of chain gangs for both men and women. Arizona's modern chain gangs, rather than chipping rocks or other non-productive tasks, often do real work of economic benefit to a correctional department. Opponents note that the gangs often work outside in oppressive desert heat; others note that participation in Maricopa County's chain gangs is voluntary, not mandatory, and that everyone else who does outdoor work there must do so in heat as well.
A year after reintroducing the chain gang in 1995, Alabama was forced to again abandon the practice pending a lawsuit from, among other organizations, the Southern Poverty Law Center. "They realized that chaining them together was inefficient; that it was unsafe," said attorney Richard Cohen of the organization. However, as late as 2000, Alabama Prison Commissioner, Ron Jones has again proposed reintroducing the chain gang. Like historical chain gangs, their reintroduced cousins have been compared to slavery in academic circles.[2]"
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chain_gang#Reintroduction_and_criticisms
They have a great article on Joe Arpaio.
I don't just make this stuff up, you know. It's all real. Including the ass rippers and that grotesque white webbing that... oh, haven't written that yet.
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2007-11-10 08:33:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
"He'd learned long ago that protesting against or ignoring a cop was an invite to an ass-kicking. If you didn't do anything wrong you had nothing to worry about when a cop told you to turn and spread, hands flat on the roof of the car. You'd soon be on your way."
These lines made me smile.
I learned the same thing years ago. Just act innocent, and you usually are innocent, it's the retards that wanna run or act jumpy that get caught.
Submitted by The_Drake (user info) at 2007-11-10 08:32:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You had me at the title.
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2007-11-10 01:16:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-11-09 22:37:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
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Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2007-11-09 21:30:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wildman = JonnyX
*****
Lung, I'd lay more money on Wildman being Shlongy. Shlongy ain't stupid.
DID I SAY THAT??? Aaaaaaarrrrgggghhhhhh!!!!!
------
I could be wrong, bubba. After all, I thought desolate_whatever was Jack.
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2007-11-10 00:33:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
I'm good at this game.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2007-11-09 23:37:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You're back in form!
FYI...a little real world input: I looked into prison labor for my political jurisdiction. The liability is too high should one of them escape or fuck up...according to the lawyers. So, chain gangs are pretty much a thing of the past.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-11-09 22:37:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2007-11-09 21:30:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wildman = JonnyX
*****
Lung, I'd lay more money on Wildman being Shlongy. Shlongy ain't stupid.
DID I SAY THAT??? Aaaaaaarrrrgggghhhhhh!!!!!
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2007-11-09 21:30:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wildman = JonnyX
Submitted by ConorJS (user info) at 2007-11-09 21:28:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fuck Supervisorman, Bear Grylls would tear him apart!
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-11-09 21:26:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Wildman (user info) at 2007-11-09 21:19:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
as requested, moron:
wasn't exactly Cool Hand Luke
looked like a routine from an old silent movie
this was what the people in the streets of lower Manhattan must have felt like when the towers came down
************
Thank you, dipshit.
Quite a stretch, considering there are five or six BASIC stories out there, told in slightly different ways. Were you an author, you would know that. Oh well. . .
Are you the judge of what Manhattanites felt? No? I didn't think so, and you didn't think.
Submitted by Wildman (user info) at 2007-11-09 21:19:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
as requested, moron:
wasn't exactly Cool Hand Luke
looked like a routine from an old silent movie
this was what the people in the streets of lower Manhattan must have felt like when the towers came down
Submitted by beer-turtle (user info) at 2007-11-09 20:52:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I got upset when I realized I was at the pause point...
fucking prick
;)
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2007-11-09 20:46:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
For my money (and I haven't offered a red cent), you are the consummate Uber-person (good and bad connotations implied). Just enough nonsense, and some very good writing.
I had a chance to work in San Bernardino, but it was too expensive.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-11-09 20:42:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Wildman (user info) at 2007-11-09 20:30:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
not bad lazy boy...but i like original descriptions rather than references to known things, people, or happenings
*************
And what, pray tell, did you recognize as a reference something known?
Submitted by Wildman (user info) at 2007-11-09 20:30:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
not bad lazy boy...but i like original descriptions rather than references to known things, people, or happenings
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2007-11-09 20:22:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Al Johnson? Al Johnson!! Just like Quasimodo, that name rings a bell.
Excellent McCallum fare; probably part one of 43,826. . .
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-11-09 19:54:06 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Director (user info) at 2007-11-09 19:29:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment