WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD? What Really Ensued In Kenya

[This is an actual excerpt of an interrogation that took place in CID Buruburu station weeks ago. This is a 'Top-Rated' sensitive documents, but thanks to our geek( you remember the hacking of a police website?) we managed to retrieve it. Remember, this is a matter of national (in)security.]

We, Inspector Tumbo Karai and Superintendent Bila Akili were directed by our superiors to conduct an investigation on an alleged chicken that has caused nation-wide uproar and tension by crossing the road. The conduct, herein viewed as a suspect motive, both in nature of the act or thereof, shall be credible foundation for this investigation, which will undoubtedly unravel other motives that has escaped the scope of Vigilant(e) House.

We laid, unknown to the culprit, two stingy operations, first 'Catch a Cock' and the other 'Roast-a-Rooster' by the Waiyaki Highway. Our boys, selected from the creme of the fieldwork offices, kept vigil for almost eight hours communicating in hi-tech methods such as Facebook, Twitter and Tumbler (They had erroneously left the 'e' so i've corrected the typo)

Sometimes before we caught the chicken in the act of crossing the road, a slight commotion was detected on the left side of the road. This was definately a desperate attempt by person or persons unknown to botch a well-choreographed operation so that the chicken may cross the road undetected. We have since confirmed the commotion was an accident involving a lady who, until her unfortunate demise, was a 25-year-old UON student.

The lab report is back and has confirmed a 98% certainty on the chicken's DNA that this is a real chicken. A chicken with two scrawny legs, a coat of feathers and .a red fez. Not the two previous chickens still in custody that brayed and barked respectively after extensive admissible interrogations.

Insp:    Chicken, i am Tumbo and this is my
         partner B. Akili from Buruburu Police
         Station.I believe you have been read
         your rights.
 
Chick:   Don't tell me Kenya has Miranda 
         rights!

Sprt:    No. We just give you a sheet with list
         of offenses you have committed and you
         put a signature on it.

        

Chick:   I don't see the reason to. The sheet
         is already signed.

Insp:    Oops, sorry for the confusion.
         (Retrieves the paper) I have
         remembered you gave us the permission
         to access your Facebook basic account
         details.  

Chick:   I don't remember having a choice, 
         especially after generously giving you

         my password.

Insp:    Kindly confirm to the recording 
         machine here that you are indeed a 
         chicken.

Chick:   If it speaks, walks or has a chicken
         swag probably ain't it. A chicken
         wouldn't try  that hard.

Sprt:    (Halts the recording machine and grabs
         the chicken by it's neck.) I did not
         come here to be mocked by a chicken 
         like you!(Sparks vividly escaping his
         nostrils)  Don't make me crush your 
         filthy balls like your friends there 
         (points at a direction to the left)

Chick:   (Genuine-ly surprised. Gasps) Didn't
         know chicken had balls!

Sprt:    We didn't know either. (He sneers and
         lessens the grasp) Now we know better!

         (Tamahaki's sound-track in the 
         background for a minute for the 
         message to sink)

Insp:    (Putting an awkward smile) You see my
         friend here has a short fuse. I will 
         not tolerate him treating you like 
         this. You  look like a reasonable 
         chicken  like me. Just answer the 
         question and I will protect you from 
         his fury. 

         (Good-Cop-Bad-Cop thing-y dummy!!)

Chick:   Yes, I am the chicken. I have always
         been a chicken since inception!

Insp:    Good, now you are co-operating. 
         Cereals? We have impounded a lorry 
         full of IDP maize sold by their camp
         leader.Kenyans! (Chuckles then 
         shakes his head) Who will liberate 
         them?   

Chick:   I'd like a Chic-a-Bix! And a packet
         of Roster cigarettes.

Insp:    (Startled) Funny they sound like 
         chicken products to me. (Uses a 
         tweetdeck to send the request) Will 
         be here in a micro-second! Now 
         Chicken(pressing  the recording 
         button) why did  you cross the road?

Chick:   (shaking its head) Ok, is this some
         kind of a big joke you guys are

         trying...

Sprt:    (snaps the recording machine halt and
         glares to the trembling chicken)

         Please answer the question as asked
         or else...

         (Jeez! I had forgotten you was 
         behind me you damnnit!)

         (Chicken, you can do this. Say it in
         your head that you can do this

         ten times!)

Chick:   (Confused. Very unsure of the
         answer) Because...er...purr-haps i 
         wanted to cross the road?

Insp:    (Sounding dangerously calm. The 
         sound of Obi-Wan Kenobi) So why 
         were not on the other side in the 
         first place? Or why didn't the road
         beneath you move you  so that you 
         would be on the other side? I will 

         ask you again  Why. Did. You. Cross.  
                  The. Road? 

Chick:   Ok, ok. Lemme answer the question 
         diligently.

         (Think chicken, think!)

         No more games, being straight with
         you guys...

         (Flap those imaginary wings, 
         chicken and cock-a-doodle)

         (Stamp your feet with authority in 
         the Chicken Palace, all hen's eyes

         on you!)

         (Perch on the tallest branch and 
         declare your chickenature with the

         might of a matador)

         (Don't chicken now, ye chicken!)

Insp:    Still waiting...

Chick:   Fuel price! (where the eff did that
         come from?) sky-rocketing fuel 

         prices is killing me. Sugar alone 
         is hitting 250 per Kg and...

Insp:    Save that for Francis Atwoli. If I 
         have not heard from him for weeks

         who are you to complain?

Chick:   Ok, I had to escape! (four 
         expectant eyes on him) End-of-year
         is nigh...

Both:    And...

Chick:   There is this cult of sadists 
         called Abaluhya For Chicken
         Annihilation(AFCA) baying for my 
         blood literary. I was not about to 
         give them that satisfaction.

Insp:    I don't think that will cut with my
         boss. He wants concrete evidence

         to convict you, y'know. C'mmon help
         me and we will work out your

         sentence by half because you are
         already convicted.We are giving 
         you an opportunity to liberate
         yourself, buddy.   

Chick:   Ok, okay (why didn't I think of
         this before?) this thing about 
         women is killing me. Some feminists
         have convinced my harem dwellers 
         that polygamy is a religious and
         social anathema. Imagine 30+ chics 

         demanding I appoint  the legal 
         inheritor-in-waiting just in case i

         accidental fall  from the nearest 
         branch and die! 

Insp:    Sorry for that (genuinely 
         sympathetic) The police is aware of
         FIDA. Their latest wishful attempt 
         is to have all Supreme court judges
         women and one male Chief Justice. 
         Women and guts!

Sprt:    There is something you not telling
         us, laddie! I can see it in your 

         two eyes.

Chick:   (How could I forget this!) This is 
         because some political heavyweights

         are out there to finish me and my 
         race politically for their own 
         benefit.  

Insp:    How is that so (inclining forward)

Chick:   (Act like a chicken you are! Act 
         Chickenese)You remember my entire 

         generation was wiped out in the 
         post-election violence?

Insp:    We have no records of that!

Chick:   Well...it was pre-election violence
         but the MO was the same. Between

         24th and 26th of December, 2007, a
         well pre-organized massacre was

         widely conducted targeting members 
         of my community in a Whoopee!

         Hooray! celebration-style of Chick-
         stmas. I am Moreno-Ocampo's key 

         witness and some politicians want 
         to finish me before i join the

         Witness Protection program.

Insp:    Dude!(Anger seeping in) I am no 
         longer going to stomach your 
                  chicken baloney! What-Is-It-You-
                   Are-Not-Telling-Us?

Sprt:    You see I have done psychology at 
         Kiganjo you pussy-looking chicken!

         (sh*t) And i have learn to observe 
         body reactions synonymous with

         lying pricks. I am now noticing you
         have teeth that you never had,

         pointed ears  like those of mitre, 
         whiskers larger than your stupid

         smile and a distracting purr. These
         are the Pinocchio's nose traits

         that you are exhibiting. We are 
         giving you the last chance or 
         else... 

Chick:   Ok, Okay, Okayee! (raising its 
         front appendages) Ok, I chicken 
         that crossed the road has a 
         confession to make.(cross your 
         paws, chicken!) I crossed the road 
         to further my political ambition as
         the next president of Kenya.

Both:    Bingo! (Bright faces. Two bodies 
         jumping up and down like frenzied

         monkeys)

         (Somebody play 'Who Is a Chicken 
         Now' by Redsan)

         (Phew!)

Insp:    I knew you was hiding something 
         from us. This is gold, treason!

Chick:   I am entitled to a lawyer!

Sprt:    OMG, after confessing?(mocks) A 
         chicken indeed!

         (Tweetdeck: please bring a pair of 
         golden cuffs on a golden platter)

         You are a special criminal, 
         y'know? Lol

         (A flash of movie 'Hell' by Van 
         Damme passing through the mind)

         Worry not, though. A clutter of 
         lawyers are all declaring their

         interests in defending you.

         There is KenChic, McFry's, Chicken 
         Inn, Galitos, Pizza Inn, AFCA among

         others.

Chick:   Can I have a final wish...just a 
         bite o' Chick-Uh-Late.

Insp:    Sure you not some kind of Chicken 
         cannibal? You can have the entire

         bar...

         (A munch)

         (Bye Garfield, just wish i could 
         have learn more tricks from you)

         (Another fleshy bite)

         (Cats don't eat chockies...DUMMIES!)

         You chicken, stop pretending you've
         fainted. Wake up!

         (Shakes it)

         Cant feel the pulse.

         (Panics. Then calms)

         You Bila Akili. Bring two pistols 
         and a can of bullets from the

         evidence room.

         I believe you know the script...

Both:    The suspect shot at my (m)boys. My 
         (m)boys short (m)back and recovered

         two pistols and eleven (m)bullets. 
         Lol

PLAYER OR FAKE? Is Fraud Masculinity The cause Of This Sham?

As i listened to her tale, the more i was torn of heart. Her voice ranged from croaky angst to inaudible whisper. It was clear whatever had transpired had eaten her soul into a mangled wreck.

The call came when I was busy with my clients. Rachel's disturbed tone made me drop everything and rush to her workplace. Her dull, contorted lines on the forehead of her cherubic face spoke volumes of what i was to hear. And those lips! curled into a thin snarl that passed for a confident smile. It was clear she was trying hard not to break in front of me.

I gave her a quick hug and settled in the waiting lounge. She asked how i was doing. I told her i was fine. I asked her how she was. She sniffed. Then torrents of tears washed up her mascara and pooled on the floor.

Rachel wept!

I am no Dr. Phil, so i watched helplessly. It was embarrassing. The few people therein waiting to be attended in various offices 'excused' themselves before throwing accusatory glances at me. They were convinced i was the evil behind the damsel's pathetic woes.

After what seemed like eternity her hearty sobs reduced to collected whimpers. I offered my soiled hanky (I had seen this part in a telly series) which she readily accepted. "Sorry for this embarrassing episode, i know you was not prepared for this."

"Ummmh," i could only manage and inquired if she needed a drink, say Dasani. I was sure she had contracted a severe bout of dehydration, what with the river of tears! She assured me she felt muchbetter than before.

"It's Tom!" In my wildest of guesses i could not have conjured that possibility. My permutations had led me to the possibility of pregnancy or worst, rape. Tom was my best friend, a confidante, a brother. Rachel introduced me to him two years ago when they began dating and since then i had grown fond of him and respected him. We had occasional dinners, went for hikes, searched for business opportunities and virtually did everything together.

I believed in Tom just as Rachel did. Because he was such a gentleman and Rachel was happy. Thus it came as a natural shock that he would be behind the heartbreak of this chic. Apparently she had paid an emergency visit to her parents in a weekend leaving her hubby alone in her house (they usually spend weekends together). Her workmate, Grace, came calling and found not in but Tom alone.  The moment she was welcomed in she did not leave the house until Rachel was on her way back. That was two days later.

Grace' inability to keep her lips intact (applies to both scenarios) enabled appropriate wags reach Rachel via Facebook, Twitter and texts from 'concerned' friends. When she confronted Tom, he came out fighting like a wounded panther, then slumped into a crappy delirium before admitting to the 'short-fall' and asking for forgiveness blaming it all to the Western regime trying to man-handle Gadhaffi.

It took Rachel three days to overcome the five stages of grief and healing: Denial, Resentment, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. Yes, she had believed all men were dogs but not her Tom. Tom the gentle, tom the cool. Tom, the guy she had given her body, her love, her trust, her heart; her everything. She had been stunned beyond despair.

Which begs me to ask, why would a man be so silly to cheat on his partner especially with a less-striking thing? Is it the rush of testosterone-induced crappy ego, or just plain fraud masculinity? If you have given yourself into a relationship, it means the immaturity nature of the yester-years are long gone and you are a new responsible individual with an ability to use the bigger of the two heads.

Unless you are the stupid-iest son of a ho!

The one i gave my heart to..

how could the one i gave my heart to,break my heart so bad
how could the one who made me happy make me feel so sad
wont somebody tell me so i can understand
if you love me how could you hurt me like that

how could the one i gave my world to,throw my world away
how could the one who said i love do the things you did
how could the one i was so true to,just tell me lies
how could the one i gave my heart to,go and break this heart of mine


how could you be so cold to me,when i gave you everything
all my love..all i had inside
i thought we had forever i cant understand

how could the one i shared my dreams with,take my dream from me
how the one who brought such pleasure,bring such misery..
somebody just tell me..how could he??
i just don't understand

A PAINFUL INCIDENCE

I finished my exams last week on Friday. I thank God for that. The fortnight was laden with coincidences and incidences. But i overcame it. For those who successfully combated the nemesis, congrats in abundance. It takes patience and courage, especially those who employ the counsel of mwakenyas.

Termination of a semester is always welcomed with excitment and blind cacophony. Without hasten, one finds a cause to do, and effectively so, however virgin on the matters. I found myself cramming barrels of frothy beverages down my gut. And doing other things of no concern to us right now.

Amidst the rampant dubious 'celebration' mood in my system, one Anthony Peter was not celebrating. This I happened to know on Sunday, two days after my ecstatic voyage. My eyes were crimson red, my head hurt real bad (due to hangovers) and it must-a taken Mrs. Ngari a substantial amount of credo to put the point across. Mrs. Ngari was Toni's mother.

Now, when i heard of Toni's incarceration in Mater Hospital, i quickly sobered up. I had never imagined him of being admitted, let alone sick. You see, this was a kind of guy who has mass dynamite in him; I mean, a body of impressive chutzpah and jovial of nature. For those yet to know me, am that kind of guy who seldom get friends, and once I do, i treasure them to eternity despite their collective faults.

I met Toni in one of the rave joints in Runyenjes, a town East of Embu, in one of the high school holidays. I think i was in form two. He had parked a family Toyota Corolla filled to the brim with bevy of hotties.I did not find that amiss, for high school moments can be more than musical.

Shags can be torturous if you do not find mates with the same IQ level. So Anthony Peter was a welcomed relief. And oh boy! he could drive. He used to ride that Toyota with dexterity and poise of a seasoned driver. I admired him. Ladies literally died to get his attention. He was that magnetic!

Toni's weakness though, my dear friends, was his insatiable fetish for pussies. This guy was damn inexhaustible in such quest. Every energy in his body was primarily spent in marauding such stuffs, and those that could pass for them. Till now have i seen a man vested in such luscious activity, for the numbers mauled by him amounts to insurmountable. He was the Akuku Danger extra-ordinnaire!

There are other incidences that are less worth mentioning here. Like this day when he discarded  a packet of condom I had dished out from my leather wallet with a careless quip, 'who uses this stuffs nowadays, dawg?' before roaring into a fucking laughter. Long fucking laughter! That crap irks me to date.

When i took my tired ass to Mater, I was devoid of the sight that would greet me. I do not believe in premonitions. No, not me. Perhaps others have them but me. That is why i stood aghast when i let myself into the ward. The something that was covered with a starched bed-cover was not Anthony Peter. It was something else.

But her mother had told me he was in 4B. That's why i un-tactically asked, "Anto, is that you?"

I knew it was him alright, but deep, deep down me I wish he could negate it. The semblance of his face looked the other side of the bed. Malady had consumed him to nothingness.It had eaten his entire body.

I was in shock!

Whatever happened in under 10 minutes from giving him a card to telling him how life will be the same and he should not get stressed ad infinitum is still foggy. I hurriedly excused myself and crushed on a sofa in the waiting bay. My head grew bigger and i was definate it would burst into bits of headaches.

I could contain it no more. You all know where it hurts most. That deep inner place where the pain begins to eat you. If you have ever lost a loved one, you probably know what I mean. That is where my cry started. And it came all the way upwards in torrents. My ribs racked under the force of the groaning sounds escaping from my lips.

Guys, I wept.

I cried and sobbed so hard that the medics recommended for a sedative. I cried for his momma who had worked hard for him. I shed tears for his defeated father and wrecked younger sister. They were all derailed. I cried for him, and many others like him.

Pussies are the best things that ever happened to mankind. I have had several encounters with them and I can confidently say they are the sweetest things since creation. But I think stupidity will lead to a wrecked life and eventual death. If you really cant chill, use rubber. Dudes, the society needs you.



(The names and ward aforementioned have been changed for obvious reasons)

YOUNGS GIRLS Vs OLD MEN: is Kenyan's society rotten?

It felt like sand in the mouth. Could not be swallowed. Felt like a rapture of my bowels...too painful to even think about it. It was worse. The cliche 'being to hell and back' was perfected for this.

When he suggested the idea, i readily agreed. Like every opportunistic individual, a drink with an MD with a blue-chip company would have been a commencement of many open doors in future. The company was having a corporate dinner event, and yes, a better rapport would be built if i caught him at that opportune time.

Did i have a friend? I thought hard, then remembered Suzzie, just a friend. I was a little taken back when he sent his chauffeur to collect us with the company's limo. "Mzee amefurahia sana hiyo business proposal yako. Anakuongojea VIP." The driver assured me that it was my savvy report that was according us such treatment. It was a joyous ride.

The lounge was furnished tastefully. I had never been to such joints before, thus my confused looks. I met local artists, two famous radio-show hosts and a news anchor. They all regaled me with the same equanimity of a celeb. As stated in one of my previous blogs, so much desire do i have for the finest things in life, especially rubbing shoulders with who-is-who in the society.

The VIP was even hypnotizing, what with so much beauty, such finesse! The MD was among the countable number of patrons therein. Suspicion loomed in the room until it was clear who our host was. Before i had sat down, a glass of champagne was steadily wetting my lips.

Suzzie is a teetotaler.

But she was frightened. She accepted the first glass, then the second. She refused the third. Which would not have added anything because she was already inebriated. Oh boy! Did she speak. I would have done something to her gob if only to lessen the embarrassment.

The MD was equally drunk.

I tried to steer the conversation to my business proposal to utter futility. He seemed bent-on to divulge his vast knowledge on world matters, his ability to give or deny one a job at the snap of his finger, his ability to soothe the president's ears at will. He was a great man, and he proudly proclaimed so.

Things started spinning out of control when he dismissed me from the VIP lounge. I tried to contact Susan's eyes but it was clear she was already feeble of mind and heart. "Kwani ako na miguu zako?" he sneered. "Usikafanye nikuitie mapolisi zangu wakuinue kama mzigo."

The threat seemed probable, and Mercy Keino's incidence kept flashing through my mind. "Kwani mavijana wa leo hawajui wazee ndio ma-jogoo wa siku hizi?" i heard his voice boom as i made it to the common lounge. I was about to settle down when two bulky bouncers calmly told me the establishment no longer needed my presence.They politely escorted me to the highly secured gates and let me out.

I was in a strange environment at the wee hours of the night. I bit hard my lips till i could taste blood.

A PYRO'S PRIZE

Well, I know, and you know, that I barely fit Mr. Right category. A disastrous commencement for a writing, you may muse. Quite right, I may concur with you. But t’seems  things aint the way they meant to be, so who cares?

I am a tired young man. I came to that conclusion long time ago, before the advent of the current sem, and association with a string of pooches around. Female pooches, that is. You know, the ones euphemistically christened as some kind of fowls and have, most of them, unabated generosity of dishing their miaows to teeth-clenching, blood-thirsty jackals.

 This is campus my friend, they tell me.

But I don’t get told like that, like some fat dumb kid with an acute sense of autism. Unheard of. That’s why in a seismic clamp of wizardly, since last semester, I’ve been hunting for THE ONE. That one chic that will reshape my amorphous lifestyle and change my maturity status.

THAT ONE CHIC.


You cant find a suitable partner in the same campus! Another advice from a friend, those who offer a lot without being asked to, but an advice nonetheless. As usual, I did not heed the verbose. Not with I seeing hordes of couples emanating from the same class, let alone the campus. John Doe and Jane Buck rarely leaving each others sides, and so do blah! blah! blah! and his oversized cougar.

What do I (not) have that these other guys (not) have? (all fuck-tors kept constant). Have you ever grown tired when one asks you, who be yua chic and eight names invade yua piteous brain all at once? That was a core reason of having a single sim-card, whatever that means. Also, it sounds sensible in this insensible world of we, ama?

That’s how she  came around, y’know, THE ONE. Sweet as an apple-pie, fantastic to sight. T’will sound a trifle desperacy if I explain a lot bout her, so allow me not to divulge further. Ok, how did I know she was THE ONE? Hang on to every word therenext, coz that’s exactly what happened:

The world between the library and the cafeteria halted. (Someone once told me of the r/ship between this occurrence and love-at-first-sight thing, which I don’t think it is of relevance here). It was only her and me. She gazed at me with the finest bluest eyes I’ve ever seen and her luscious, voluptuous lips were twisted to a lopsided grin. (I’ve since discovered she has brown eyes, but hey, that’s what I saw then). We danced a Hindu salsa to Mugiithi tune in the background. As they say, the rest became history.

She was good, really good. Kimberly was. She was everything, I swear she was. I even confessed it to my bros Vikta and Jacque, and you could see on their faces that I had gone bonkers. The intelligent jokes, her silky voice during  karaokes, her support in Open Mic and those sweat-drenching moments. I really, really liked her. I had - um, how do I put it - fallen head over heels.

When I knew about it, I didn’t react. That she someone’s fiancée, twas hardest for me to comprehend. I did not shout, rave mad or break a furniture. I just sat, my gloated balls deflated, defeated. I didn’t accost her with a hearty diatribe, that’s sort of kid-ish, and I don’t like the feel of it. Her pliant body on my arms, an irreconcilable memory in my famished brain.

All this sounds like giving dynamite as a door prize to a pyromaniac.

ONLINE DATING: The Experience

Truthfully, that is what had happened. A quench for curiosity. Perhaps i took it over-board, or situations thereabout, whichever way, she was seated opposite me. She gave me a re-assuring brilliant smile. I gave her a stupid smile.

                     
I had heard about DateMatch from somebody, somewhere. I can't remember from whom, which does not matter anyway. What was this website about? Why would people want to meet and date online? Why would anyone be so vulnerable and hope-less in love to venture into Internet-arranged hook-ups? Y'know, those kinds of questions that makes a good writer whip out his greatest strategy to unlock the answers: The Investigation. so i clicked the mouse button.

The site led me to a preliminary personal information quest, which i comfortably faked. My user name was 13INCH, not in reference to any of my anatomy size, but for anonymity purposes. I did not fake my Country's and Place of Residence localities, Kenya and Westlands respectively, for a nudge at the crest of my brain forbade me to.

Afterward i circumnavigated through a myriad of scantily-dressed ladies, others pompously sharing photos of fleshes in their nether regions or thereabout. The more i scrolled through the page, the more my investigation unravelled answers and the more i got entangled. I convinced myself that i was on the right track and my extra-jovial feelings had everything to do with journalistic enthusiasm of triumph

                                                         

Soon my page was awash with beauties all claiming undying love for me. I was overwhelmed with emotions. Years and years had squeezed by and no lady had mentioned the coveted four-letter word to me except on the height of explosive orgasms while their stilettos are hitting the ceilings. And most of those time, cataclysm of alien names would filter out of the coital-induced yelps.

That led me to a series of distinct bonding with most of the ladies with majority insisting for my photos to utter futility. It was after four weeks of chronic 'chatting' that i ended up taking a particular interest to a certain 'CLEANSHAVED2822' whose chatting were devoid of lurid sex talk and wild performance braggadocio. And i found her chat-name quite captivating.

We agreed to meet in a populated joint in Westlands, Famous Dave's, at two in the afternoon. She would be in a green sweater and pallid petal-sleeved Billie dress. I would be in a red tee and black pants, i naturally lied.


I put on a pressed Apollo suit with a starch-white shirt and Kenya Rugby Association's red tie. I squeezed off the last drops of Yardley English Blazer cologne on my shirt collar. After ensuring my wallet had a debit card (I had lied am working-class) i swiftly hopped into a ten-bob ride to Westie.

I saw her before she saw me and i found her striking. I quickly eased myself on an empty seat opposite, startling her.

"13 Inches?" she inquired, quizzically, with a tinge of embarassment.

"Call me John," I laughed. It was funny. "And you?"

"Lucy."

The first dice had been rolled.