The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

It was probably that my dick was hanging out of my pants -- that was probably the first thing that got everyone's attention. That, and the fact that as I busted through the glass doors of the St. Charles Best Western on my Harley, I accidentally killed Rich Ledson, our class president. Ah, but he was an asshole, so no big loss.

I jumped off my hog, grabbed the half-finished fifth of Jack straddling the handlebars, and sauntered over to the reception desk. Julie Albert... or whatever the fuck her name is now, was sitting there with a nervous smile on her face.

"Oh... ah... Jason... how... nice... you... could... make it. Ah... well, here's a nametag, now if you could just write your name on..."

I clocked her one in the face and knocked her unconscious. "Hey!" I yelled. "I don't need a fuckin' nametag! I'm Jason fuckin' PETTUS! Valet! Where's the goddamned valet! You! You there! Go out there and park my sweet baby, The Martha Stewart III. And don't you dare get a scratch on 'er, or I'm opening up a whole can of whupass on you tonight!"

"B-b-but..." the guy stammered. "I-I'm not the valet. I'm Chris Lantz! You remember me? I was captain of the wrestling team? I went to state in my weight division two years in a row?"

"You're not the valet, huh?" I said. "Then why are you wearing the cheapest, ugliest, most god-awful fucking suit I have ever seen in my life?"

"Uh..."

"Oh, never mind. Go fetch me a drink."

"B-b-but..." He pointed at my bottle. "B-but you already have a drink."

"Oh, do I?" I looked down at the bottle, then before he knew what was happening, I smashed it across the bridge of his nose, instantly crumpling him to the carpet. "Well now I don't fucking have a drink! So go get me one!" When he didn't respond, I poked him in the ribs with my steel-tipped cowboy boots. "Chris? Oh Chris?" When he still didn't respond, I walked away in disgust. "Pussy," I muttered. "You want something done right around here, you gotta do it yourself."

When I got to the bar, who should be tending but Michele Fallert, my ex-girlfriend. She was wearing a stained tuxedo shirt, black polyester miniskirt, and a pair of red six-inch "fuck me" pumps.

"Well, well, if it isn't Jason Pettus!" she said excitedly, wiping down the bar.

"Hey, what's shaking, Jiggles?" Jiggles, of course, being my pet name for her. It referred to no part of her anatomy -- she just seemed to get a kick out of it when I called her that. Go figure.

"Oh, Jason," she said, starting to make a triple Manhattan with double vermouth -- hey, she remembered my favorite drink! "Oh, Jason," she continued, "things have just gone from bad to worse since I broke up with you. First, my new boyfriend got me pregnant and I had to drop out of school. Then when the kid was four, he found my boyfriend's gun and shot him dead. Now he wears a dress and plays drums for a Riot Grrrrl band called 'Toxic Shock Syndrome.' Fortunately, this event got me on The Jerry Springer Show... but my boyfriend's parents sued me and took my appearance fees. So, broke and addicted to Doane's Back Pills, I was forced to take this job at the Best Western lounge. Truth be told, the only reason I get to keep the job is 'cause I'm taking it up the ass from the manager every night back in the walk-in freezer."

"Well... that's too bad, Jiggles," I said, dropping six maraschino cherries into my drink. "But, if I do remember correctly, I did tell you when we were 16 that you'd regret breaking up with me."

"You're right, Jason -- God, you're so right! So..." she said, trying to change the subject, "How are you doing these days?"

"Oh, fine. I live in Chicago now. I'm living the life of a failed artist. The highlight of my week is going to this really shitty bar and reading my stories for a roomful of drunks and smackheads. Half the time they don't even know I'm on stage, and the other half, they couldn't care less what I'm saying unless I'm shouting 'fuck' at the top of my lungs."

"Oh, how positively thrilling!" Michele squealed. "More! Tell me more!"

"Okay, Jiggles. I'm a temp who gets seven hours of work a week. My electricity's been turned off twice in the last six months..."

"Oh, stop! You're getting me all hot! I have to work for another five hours!"

"All right, Jiggles. I always forgot how much I turned you on."

"Oh Jason!" she cried. "Take me with you! I'm sick of turning tricks at the Wal-Mart snack bar! Whisk me away to your crazy, artistic, bohemian lifestyle in Chicago!"

"You had your chance," I said, taking my drink. "But... we'll always have the back bleachers of Homecoming 1985, won't we?" I slapped a hundred dollar bill down on the bar. "Have a good life, Jiggles."

"God bless you, Jason Pettus!" Michele yelled, waving at me long after I was gone.

When I got across the room, I spied Amy Soos, a girl I had had a big crush on in high school who would have nothing to do with me. "Jason Pettus!" she said, clutching my arm. "Thank God you showed up!" It was obvious that she was already trashed, and if the blood trickling down her nose was any indication, she had already been paid a visit from 'Dr. Tinkle,' if you know what I mean.

"What are you talking about, Dingey?" I said, pulling my arm away. For some reason, women really love it when I use the vernacular made famous by Mel from the hit CBS sitcom "Alice." I have no idea why... but then again, women have always been a mystery to me.

"Oh Jason, I had no idea what I was missing in high school! You see, I didn't sexually blossom until I was 23, and it wasn't until then that I could see what was right in front of me. If I had only known how romantic it was when you'd sit outside my house for hours on end in your '74 primer-gray Duster, staring into my bedroom window with a pair of binoculars! If I'd only known how wet I'd get from slightly geeky guys who drink too much and look vaguely like Mr. Bean! And..." she pointed to my still-exposed Johnson -- "...if I'd only known that you possessed the most virile piece of manhood I have ever seen in my entire life!"

"Ah, stow it, Dingey! You know that I'll only ask out women that will have nothing to do with me. And if I'll turn down Madonna, you can bet your sweet ass I'm gonna turn you down! Now get your grubby mitts off me before I have my men do it for you."

Amy fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh, for God's sake," I said, "get up. Show a little self-respect. And one more thing..." I shouted over my shoulder as I walked away. "They call it dope for a reason!

"You!" I yelled at the D.J. as I walked up to the booth. "What the fuck is this shit you're playing?"

"Why, it's new wave hits from the '80s! It's the music you grew up to!"

"New wave... hits? NEW WAVE HITS!? Buddy, I don't know if anyone's told you this yet or not, but you're in the middle of rural St. Charles County fuckin' Missouri! Only mamma's boys listened to 'new wave hits' in my high school! Tito! Tito!" I called to my administrative assistant. "Tito, bring over my karaoke tape!" Tito swaggered his 400-pound Samoan frame over to the D.J. booth. "All right folks -- here's the St. Charles hits of the '80s!" I yelled at the crowd, grabbing the mike and punching the D.J. in the face, just for good measure.

"BANG YOUR HEAD

WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT

ROUND AND ROUND

YOU SHOOK ME ALL NIGHT LONG

I -- I -- I -- I

PA-NA-MA

SHE GOT THE LOOKS THAT KILL

TODAY'S TOM SAWYER GOT A MEAN MEAN STRIDE

I WANT YOU... TO WANT ME!

I WANT YOU TO SHOW ME THE WAY

ROCK OF AGES

AND EVERY ROSE HAS ITS THORN

GOOD NIGHT ST. LOUIS!"

The crowd broke into uproarious cheers and hoisted me onto their shoulders. Just then, my arch-enemy, Principal Dan Brown, showed up in the corner of the room.

"Hey... hey there," he yelled. "Put that child down immediately!"

"Hey, Mr. Brown!" I yelled. "You got any nude pictures of yer wife?"

"Why... no, no I don't."

"You wanna buy some? Ha-ha-ha! GET 'IM!" The crowd, already whipped into a frenzy, jumped on Mr. Brown and beat him to within an inch of his life.

"All right, jerkies, all right," I said, climbing down from their shoulders. "My job here is done. I'm outta here."

"But..." they cried, following me out to my sweet baby, The Martha Stewart III. "What will you do? Where are you going?"

"Going?" I jumped on my hog and kick started 'er up -- VROOOOM, VRROOOOM VRROOOM VRROOOOOOOOMMM oh what a sweet baby she is! "I'll tell you where I'm going! I'm going back to my parents' house! I'm gonna sit in my old bedroom and look through all my yearbooks! And I'm gonna masturbate about each and every one of ya!"

"YAY!" they yelled. "All hail Jason Pettus! All hail the King of the Class of 1986 -- the Class with Class!"

As I started to pull away, dozens of naked children suddenly appeared, all holding baskets full of flower petals to throw in front of me, so that my sweet baby, The Martha Stewart III, would never have to touch the cursed ground of St. Charles, Missouri. When I got out of the parking lot, I lit a Molotov Cocktail and threw it in the Best Western, blowing the place up and killing every last one of the bastards. Ah, but they were a bunch of assholes, so no big loss.

Recently a friend of mine here in Chicago was trying to decide if he should go to his ten-year high-school reunion. He asked me if I had a fun time at mine.

"Ah... well, it was okay," I said. "But you should go. You never know... you may be surprised."