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Another installment in my series of odd places I've fucked.

Dean hasn't seen for months. I was nowhere near my 7,500 words that I needed for this assignment. I enjoyed writing about all the green things and growing things, but even I was bored with my words. I needed help. Who was I going to call? Ghostbusters? No, they are as white as the damn snow.

That's when I remembered Bill. He sits at the back of the classroom and about the same age as me, at least the same generation as me. I've chatted with him a few times after class and we seem to have similar likes and dislikes in literature. He always has very constructive criticism when we are in our little groups tearing apart each other's stories. Yeah, I'll call him and see if he can help me out with more ideas.

"Hi, Bill. It's Kelly from Mrs. Dean's writing class."

"Oh, hi. How are ya?"

"I'm good, but I'm having trouble reaching that lofty 7,500 word essay she wants us to write. How are you doing with yours?"

"I'm all done. Piece of cake."

"Do you think you could come over and help me out with mine?"

"Sure. Where do you live?"

"Hunter Lane. It's off of Pinecrest. Number 1512. Avocado-colored cape on the left."

"Okay. I know where that is. I'll see you in about 15 minutes."

When his car pulled into the driveway, I went to the front door to let him in. I thanked him for dropping what he was doing to come to my rescue. He had said he had just taken a shower and was sitting around watching TV and he didn't mind helping at all. He apologized for showing up in his sweatpants and I told him I didn't care as long as he came with ideas to help me out.

I asked him what he wrote his essay about and how could he have finished it so quickly. Then, he told me, "My story is about grass-marijuana." I laughed right out loud. He went on, "Mrs. Dean said she missed seeing grass, so I wrote my paper on how you can grow it in you basement, or attic, or back yard. How to smoke it, roll it, chop it up and bag it. Yeah, I'm giving her all the instructions from A to Z."

Kelly was a little reluctant to ask, "Are you an expert on the subject?" Bill was very proud to announce, "Hell, no! Everything I know about weed is what I learned from Jack Lord on Hawaii Five-O." He added, "I'm a big bull-shitter. I can bull-shit my way through almost anything. That's why I write so well. I can go on and on about nothing and make people think I know what I'm talking about. Actually, it's a lot of fun. Now, how can I help you stretch the truth on your story, Kelly?" He made a motion like he was stretching out a rubber band.

She pointed him toward the stairway and said, "My computer is in my", there was a moment of hesitation in her voice, "it's in my bedroom. This way, upstairs, on the right." When he started to head up the stairs, she asked, "Would you like a drink? Maybe something green to get you in the mood for my story?" He looked back at her, squinted his eyes and made a face at her, "Green drink? What the heck did you write about, Kelly?"

"Oh, you just go up and read my story and I'll make us some margaritas", she exited the hallway to go to the kitchen to prepare her chartreuse colored concoction. "I'll be up in a couple of minutes."

She returned to the bedroom with a tray full of stemware and food. The margarita glasses had salt on the rims and the pitcher from the blender was full to the top of her frozen concoction of yellowish-green liquor. There was a plate full of nachos and she said, "Hola, Senor Bill!"

He lifted his eyes from the computer monitor, and said, "Hola. Oh, Kelly!" She was standing there with the tray in her two hands, so beautiful, but oh, so blonde, he thought, in every sense of the word. "This is going to need a lot of work. I don't know where to begin." He stood and took the tray from her and placed it on the dresser next to the desk.

"Let's have a taste of this drink and see if you are a better mixologist than an author," Bill was pouring the frozen slush into the fancy glasses.

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