Her Birthday

"Where's the twist?" she asked him.

"What twist?" he replied.

"Almost all of your stories have had a twist."

"Oh, like her taking over on his birthday," said the blonde."

"And the jewelry on that date one," added the brunette.

"And the parents coming in on the fighting one."

"And the woman tricking the guy on the roof."

"Or the ending of the one when the guy and the girl danced every year."

"Or the fucked up ending to the bridge one."

Finally, the man interrupted. "What, this isn't enough? We're sitting here, watching as the entire story transpires, and are even participating at the end. That's not enough of a twist?" Both of the women looked at him, one on each side, and, as if they had conspired to do it together, shook their heads in tandem.

"OK, OK, OK," he said, holding up his hands. Taking a moment, he looked back at the screen of his computer, and then began to type quickly. The two women waited patiently, idly looking around at the city street. A commotion, half a block away, drew their attention almost immediately.

A large man, not exactly tall but extremely muscular was running down the sidewalk towards them. His bald head was shining in the sun, and the large gun, upraised in his hand, startled more then a few people, but their fright was calmed by the large police badge handing from a chain around his neck, banging into his large chest with every step.

He ran at full speed down the sidewalk, his eyes darting around, looking in vain for something. He slowed to a stop in front of the three people, looking around, searching the crowd. His eyes eventually found the trio.

"Have you seen a bad guy go past here recently?" He was breathing hard, but not quite panting. He was obviously in good shape. All three of the people on the bench shook their heads, shrugging. His gaze went from one to the next, stopping on the brunette. Automatically, his gun went into his holster, and he continued to look at the brunette with more then obvious interest.

Holding out his hand, he said quietly, "Hi, I'm Michael." He pulled her up, and drew her close, and she, totally taken by his actions, didn't even whimper a protest. She was utterly infatuated.

The man with the computer and the blonde watched this, the man with an amused look on his face, the blonde looking with complete surprise. The writer dug into his pocket, coming up with a card with a magnetized strip. He handed it to the newcomer, who took it absentmindedly. Both the bald man and the brunette continued to look at each other with what could only be described as 'googly-eyes'.

"Ahem," said the typist. "It's the largest suite in the hotel." The pair began to move across the street towards the entrance, neither of them acknowledging his words as he continued to call out. "It has roof access...with a private outdoor pool...and a sun bathing deck." They had both moved farther away, neither paying any bit of attention.

The blonde and the man watched them, as they moved into the hotel, still holding hands, neither looking away from the other. The man on the bench smiled as they disappeared, chuckling quietly to himself as he turned to the blonde. His laughter caught in his throat as he saw the expression on her face.

She stared at him with her eyebrows raised, a 'what about me' look on her face. His smile fell as if the strings holding it up were cut, and he turned back to the computer. Whistling to himself disjointedly, almost as if he was slightly frightened, he began to type almost immediately, continuing where he left off.

His whistling faded as a slight humming sound started next to the blonde, about three feet away from their bench, down the sidewalk. A weird sort of glow faded into view as the humming grew louder. It coalesced into a form approximately six feet tall, and vaguely in the shape of a man. Both the man and the woman watched it, the woman with curiosity, the man with slight interest, as the glow faded, and there, in its place, stood a man.

He had blond hair, was athletic but not too muscular, and was dressed in only a bright blue tank top and matching boxer-briefs. Barefoot, he looked around at his surroundings, a look of wonder and slight confusion coming over his face. A slight breeze went past, and he obviously felt it on his bare skin. Looking down, his jaw almost dropped in astonishment laced with slight horror, and his eyes shot straight upwards to the sky.

His fist shaking at the passing clouds, he shouted, "MALCOLM! WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES!?"

The blonde woman was as awestruck as the brunette had been, but the man merely lifted his fist to his mouth, coughing a polite 'AHEM' and attracting the blonde man's attention. He looked back down at the pair on the bench, a tad shy about his attire, but any movement to cover up was lost as he saw the blonde woman sitting in front of him, openly staring at him with her mouth wide open.

The man with the computer shook his head, then looked the other way, watching people moving casually on the sidewalk across the street. He looked back at the pair as the blonde woman's hand pawed at his chest. She wasn't looking at him, but up at the blonde man who had moved in front of her. His hand was held out, holding the woman's other hand, and was drawing her slowly up.

The woman's hand stopped pawing at the writer's shirt, the staying in front of him, snapping with a beaconing movement. He sighed, digging into his back pocket. Out of it, he withdrew a card matching the one he gave to the brunette and her companion. The blonde took it, then allowed herself to be pulled up by the man in blue.

They slowly began to walk across the street towards the entrance to the hotel. The lone man on the bench called out to them as they walked away. He doubted that they listened any more then the first couple.

"It's next door to the other room. There's no roof access, but it has a huge garden tub." He quickly thought for a moment, and then added, "AND A FANCY, BUILT IN MASSAGE TABLE. I HEARD HE WAS GOOD AT ACCUPRESSURE!" He barely managed to get out this last statement before they moved through the huge doors of the building.

Sitting back down, the man looked around for a moment. The world was passing, and the sun streamed down from the early afternoon sky. He smiled, enjoying the sounds of the city. A single pigeon fluttered down next to him on the bench, cooing softly. He dug into his pocket, producing a small piece of crust. Setting it down, the bird immediately picked it up and flew off. The man smiled to himself.

Looking at the computer on his lap, he sighed with contentment. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes in concentration. After a few moments, he opened his eyes, looked at the screen, and began once more to type again.

Almost immediately, a large black limo pulled up to the curb in front of him. The writer tapped a few more keys before closing the machine and standing up. As he did, a man, not too dissimilar to himself, got out of the passenger side front door and walked around the front of the car.

As he stepped up to the first man, anyone who looked at them would have guessed that they were brothers, if not twins. Their builds were quite similar, and except for the shortness of the new man's hair, or the careful trim of his goatee, they were identical.

Only their clothes differed. The newcomer was dressed impeccably in a fine dark suit, a forest green tie giving the only color. The writer, on the other hand, was dressed in a bright green t-shirt and blue jeans, brown hiking boots on his feet.

The new man bowed slightly to the writer before offering his hand. He said a single word in greeting.

"Sir."

"Ah, Mr. Neilson. And how are you this fine day?" the t-shirted man asked jovially as he took his doppelganger's hand, shaking it firmly.

The newcomer's voice was crisp and proper. "Very good, sir. Your limo is here to take you to the airport for the trip to the club. Your personal jet is fueled and ready for your arrival. Susan and Helen are waiting on board." They released the handshake, and the suited man gestured to the black car's rear door. He led the writer over to it, opening it for him as he stepped inside. Closing it, he stepped quickly back around to his door, entering the car before it slowly moved out into traffic and down the street.

Inside the rear of a car sat the writer. He looked at all of the buttons on the console, the small bar and refrigerator, and over the plush leather seats of the rear compartment. His eyes finally rested on the woman sitting next to him.

There, in a blue dress tighter then could be possible without a can of spray paint, sat a brunette that looked remarkably like a young version of Geena Davis. Her long legs came out of the short hemline, one nylon covered thigh and calf rubbing smoothly and sensually over the other as she leaned over, kissing him gently on the cheek while the very low-cut top displayed an ample amount of cleavage.

He sucked in a quick intake of breath, letting it out in a slow exhale. He took the champagne flute that the woman now offered him, his eyebrows bunching slightly in a questioning look. She smiled at him, and then leaned over again, whispering in his ear.

"Ginger ale," she said in a seductive tone, her hot breath running over his earlobe and across his neck. He smiled at her and raised it in a motion of thanks towards her. She returned the smile, but in a more alluring and seductive way, almost lustfully.

He took a sip and glanced for a second out of the window. As the woman moved to snuggle up next to him, her breasts pressing against his arm, he said something quietly to himself.

"No twist? Heh."

The car moved on down the road and around the corner, out of sight of the hotel and the bench across the street.