John Locke Wish List
Prologue
Donovan Creed
We'd met on the internet, exchanged emails, and she was married. But she accepted a dinner date anyway, and showed up. We toasted, talked, flirted unmercifully, shared a sissy dessert, and then went to my room for a nightcap. The drinks came and went, then we cuddled and kissed and I started to undo her blouse and she said, "I can't."
"Can't what?"
"Do this."
"Why not?"
She looked as though she didn't mean it, but said, "It's not right."
"Oh."
"Don't be mad."
"I'm not. I thought things were going well. I was wrong."
"It's not that. Really, it's just, we shouldn't do this."
"It's me?"
"No, of course not! You're incredible! I've had a wonderful time."
"But things could have gone better tonight. For you, I mean."
"No, that's not it. Look, I promise, it's not you."
I nodded. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yes, of course."
"Did you buy a new bra and panties before coming here?"
"What?"
"I'm just curious. You don't have to show me or anything, I was just wondering if your underwear is new."
She blushed. "It is. It's new."
"And you bought it when?"
"What difference does it make?"
I said nothing.
She said, "Two days ago. What's your point?"
"So…two days ago you thought it might be okay for you to take your clothes off if things went well between us, but now it's not okay. And the only thing that's different is we've met and spent some time together, which you say was incredible."
She started to say something but changed her mind, then closed her eyes tightly and winced, as if trying to compute something mathematically.
"Oh, hell," she said, "Let's just do it and get it over with!"
"Let's," I said.
I started working the buttons on her blouse with renewed vigor, giving her little time to regret her decision. I got the damn thing off, along with her bra, meaning, I'd just gotten to the good part when my cell phone vibrated on the nightstand.
"You need to get that?" she said.
I grabbed my knife from under the pillow and plunged it through the center of the phone in a motion so quick it should have impressed the shit out of her. In retrospect I guess she hadn't expected the knife or my ability to use it.
She ran to the door screaming, clutching her bra and blouse to her chest. She was fidgety, and it took a while to get the door unlocked, but when she realized I wasn't chasing her she paused to put her clothes on, while keeping a wary eye on me.
I was aware of all this, but I was more interested in my cell phone.
It was still ringing.
I pried the knife loose and answered it.
"Creed."
"Mr. Creed, this is Buddy Pancake. I'm in trouble."
To the girl in my room I said, "Wait. You lost an earring." It was a large gold hoop, probably bought at the same time she bought the underwear. I slid it on the blade of my knife and hurled it in her direction. She shrieked as it stuck in the door frame and vibrated back and forth. It was a good throw, one that should have dazzled her, landing as it had a mere two inches from her face.
"Buddy," I said, "You're a pain in the ass."
"Sorry, Mr. Creed."
My date angrily tried to pry the knife out of the door frame, but I'd thrown it too hard. She gave up, opened the door, and, rather rudely I thought, flipped her middle finger at me before leaving.
I said, "What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Buddy?"
"The worst kind."
I sighed. "Where are you?"
Part One:
BUDDY PANCAKE
Introduction On April 8, 2010, custom motorcycle builder Jesse James was voted "The Most Hated Man in America," for cheating on America's Sweetheart, actress Sandra Bullock.
The story broke three days after Sandra won the Oscar for Best Actress for her performance in The Blind Side.
The Academy Awards had been held Sunday, March 7, at Hollywood's Kodak Theatre. In attendance that night were a number of famous beauties, including Mariska Hargitay, Kate Winslet, Maria Menounos, Demi Moore, Jinny Kidwell, Amanda Seyfried, and Charlize Theron.
If you're lucky enough to be a world famous actress, and one of the world's most beautiful women, you might not say it out loud, but secretly you know you can have any man on the planet.
For this reason, the entire world would be stunned to know that five days after Sandra Bullock won her Oscar, a balding, pudgy, middle class nobody named Buddy Pancake managed to do something only three men in the entire world had done.
He fucked Jinny Kidwell.
How did a man like this wind up in bed with Jinny Kidwell?
Simple.
He wished it.
Chapter 1
This whole thing started the way things often do: a few guys hanging out together on a Sunday afternoon, talking about pussy.
It's early March, and we're three underachievers, soft, wimpy, mid-management worker bees, sitting in the basement of my split-level ranch, in the room I like to call my office. There's an old college couch in here, and a black, faux-leather bean bag chair. An ancient, but working, TV sits atop a maple desk I salvaged from my neighbor's yard sale last summer. It's not fancy, but it's mine, and has a matching chair. The room's only window shows half dirt, half sky. It's split horizontally, and the top half pushes open about six inches, just enough to let the weed smoke out.
By way of introduction, I'm Buddy Pancake.
I'll pause a minute, while you bust my balls. Go ahead, ask me if Pancake is my real name.
It is.
Ask me "What's Mrs. Butterworth?"
I don't know. What, maybe five bucks?
Hilarious.
Move along to where I live.
Yeah, that's right. The Pancake House.
I know. You got a million more.
Do me a favor. Put the pancake thing on hold while I tell my story. You won't be sorry, it's a helluva story.
For five days I was the luckiest man in the world.
And then I wasn't.
Chapter 2
Like I said, here we are, me, Mike and Richie, in my basement office. My wife, Lissie, on her way home with a pound of pasta and a bottle of Patsy's All Natural Puttanesca Sauce.
Me, telling my friends the origin of the name puttanesca: "It means Whore's Sauce."
"Oh, bullshit," Mike says.
I pass him the joint and say, "No, for real. Puttanesca was a cheap, quick dish Italian hookers made between tricks. The ingredients can be found in any Italian larder."
"Listen to you," Richie says. "Larder. Jeez. How gay is that?"
I flip my middle finger in response.
Mike, pensive, says, "Ever been with one?"
"What, a hooker?"
"Yeah."
"Get real," I say.
Mike passes the torch to Richie, and we're quiet a minute, thinking about doing it with a hooker.
Mike breaks the silence. "Well, you got Lissie. Don't know how you managed it, but who needs a hooker when you got a looker, eh?"
We laugh, take another hit off our communal joint, blow it in the general direction of the window, and chase it with a swallow of scotch.
"But say you didn't have Lissie," Mike persists. "Who would you want?"
"Whaddya mean?"
Richie, getting into it: "Say you can have any chick in the world. Who would you choose?"
"Wait," I say, "You mean like for one night? Who would I want to fuck?"
My friends nod.
"Hell, I don't know."
"You don't know?" Mike says.
"I mean, I never thought about it."
"Oh, bullshit!" Richie says. "I know who I'd take."
Richie knows we're looking at him, so he makes us wait a few seconds. Then he says, "Megan Fox."