Russia, Japan, or Dominican?

Suz and I are leaving for the Dominican Republic tomorrow. In light of that, here I am in Cuba last year.

Cuba was Suzy's choice. And I thought it was an excellent one. It was exciting to visit a communist country, and to do so while Fidel Castro was still in power made it even more so. He won't be around forever, and with his "departure", Cuba will likely undergo some changes.

This year, as usual, Suz got her choice of vacation spots.

The two places I want to visit the most are Russia and Japan. Beaches are nice, but I want to do something different. I've always been different.

However, Suz, being normal, wants heat and relaxation, not architecture and excitement. To me, that's a little sad, but I'm not about to argue with her. In all honesty, we don't have the money to travel to Russia for a week.

As for Japan, we could make it there alright, but once we got hungry, we wouldn't be able to afford to eat. Japan is probably the only place in the world where a 16:9 plasma TV costs less than a ceasar salad.

And what will $100 U.S. buy me? An apple.

YES, that's right, one single solitary "designer" apple. Or a square watermelon. It's my choice, really.

But my dreams of going broke in Japan will have to wait a few more years. By tomorrow, I'll be lounging in the winding pool of the Ocean Blue resort in Punta Cana, where everybody takes rum showers, because it's cheaper than water.

It's A Boy!

Ever wonder where the colour scheme blue is for boys, pink is for girls came from?

I don't have the answer. But I did spend my weekend painting a blue bedroom for my friends and the blue bundle they're expecting, followed by helping my parents paint their master bedroom a delightful yellowy bile colour.

But who's to say blue has to be for boys? I say Bombs are for boys.

While smearing a blue-tinted chemical all over the walls of a baby's room, I had a little fun. Bombs, bums, people getting shot and a beautiful palm tree, complete with coconuts.

Although you might think some of these images are not appropriate for a baby's room (or anybody else's for that matter), remember: babies can't see. Or understand.

And, these crude blue temporary paintings are certainly better than what used to cover these walls: Life-sized, frightening, hungry jungle animals.

Okay, they were not exactly "life-sized", but they were huge, floor-to-ceiling, and they were most definitely frightening. Jamie, an innocent toddler friend of ours, screamed for her life upon viewing these enormous hand-painted animals.

And she spent the whole day watching Madagascar over and over again! That movie features nearly all of the animals that blessed these walls: a zebra, a lion, a giraffe, and some others. Which really proves just how incredibly scary these painted animals must have been, driving an animal-loving toddler into hysterics and all.

How the previous owner's offspring managed to live in that room is beyond me. But that kid is gone, along with all the animals. Unfortunately, so is poor Jamie's bladder control whenever she sees a kitten or a birdy.

Acupuncture Test

Those brilliant Chinese folks use tiny drops of water to torture people, yet they stab you with tons of needles to relieve your pain. Seems a little backwards.... no?

I experienced acupuncture the other day. But this was only a test to see if my body would react properly to the needles.

Before they inserted the needles, they has to test me to see if I was a magician. I checked the "No" box, but I guess they can't just take your word for it.

I was forced to walk across a bed of nails, which stabbed my feet quite horribly. The doc concluded acupuncture needles would work on my non-magician skin-type. He then inserted 10 needles, five in each foot.

Side effects of acupuncture include nausea, vomiting, irregular heartbeat, passing out, increased pain instead of decreased pain, and the slight posibility of contracting HIV. Oh, and your tears turning to acid and your eyeballs exploding. Yeah, almost forgot about that.

Luckily I didn't need acupuncture in my eyes. I needed it in my feet.

I've had some sort of foot problem for about 3 years now. I've seen 7 foot specialists since this excruciating pain first developed around 2002. And if you don't believe the pain is that real, ask Fortino's if you can view their security tape of me, bawling my eyes out as I crawl out the exit doors.

From all of the specialists I've visited, all the x-rays I've had, all the blood tests and the bone-scans, one thing has become clear. I'm a medical mystery.

Every doctor has disagreed with the previous doctors, and each one has diagnosed me with something different. But that is to be expected. Every restaurant will claim they have the best food, every car company will claim they build the best vehicles, so it's only natural for each doctor to diagnose me within the scope of their knowledge.

But here's the most confusing part. Every attempt to cure my pain has only resulted in increased pain. And so, as a last resort to rid my feet of this pain, I'm now having needles painfully jabbed into me.

Acupuncture doesn't cure anything. What it does is release endorphins, which block the pain. It's called pain management.

The sports injury and Chinese medicine specialist I'm seeing now will continue to pierce my flesh with needles while conducting some more indepth testing to determine what is actually wrong with my feet.

Normal treatments only make my pain worse, which is the opposite of what is supposed to happen. So now I'm trying the opposite of Western medicine: Chinese medicine.

Cadbury Mini-Eggs or Hershey's Eggies

I have a lot of respect for a girl who stands up for what she believes in, especially when it's something as crappy as Hershey's Eggies.

When Cadbury jumped on the Easter scene with their silky chocolate eggs coated in a delicious candy shell, there must have been a lot of unrest over at their rival's head office.

Hershey quickly threw a game plan together, gathering their most brilliant minds in the corporate boardroom. They stayed late every night tossing ideas back and forth.

Somewhere along the line, somebody decided their best idea was to duplicate Cadbury mini-eggs exactly. But it didn't really work out that way. Why? Because when you take an inferior vomit-inducing chocolate, and cover it in an inferior vomit-inducing candy shell, you end up with vomit-inducing garbage.

But they did it anyway. They took their crap, coated it in some more crap and ended up with... yep, you guessed it. Crap. Their logic? People will still buy them because the bags will be bigger!

I don't know what kind of strategy that is, but it sounds bad. Manure comes in big bags too! Does that mean manure will outsell Hershey's Eggies? Given the choice, I think most people would rather eat the bag of manure.

At our local Wal-mart, Hershey's Eggies were selling like hotcakes. Until my friend ST3 noticed that Cadbury's Mini-Eggs were not on the shelves. Of course Eggies were selling well without any competition. ST3 dared his co-worker to put out Cadbury's Mini-Eggs. In the spirit of fair play, she did, putting them side-by-side on the shelf.

So, let the competition begin! Cadbury's Mini-Eggs vs. Hershey's Eggies. If the local Wal-mart sells more Mini-Eggs by week's end, ST3 wins a bag of yum. If the Eggies sell more, he has to buy his co-worker a big bag of Hershey's Crap-Balls.

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Which do you prefer? Vote now!

K.I.T.T. vs. Bugatti Veyron

Comparing K.I.T.T.,The Knight Industries Two Thousand, to the Volkswagen-owned Bugatti Veyron supercar.

K.I.T.T. = priceless.
Veyron = $1.23 million dollars

K.I.T.T., a (nearly) one-of-a-kind project developed by The Foundation For Law & Government using a 1982 Pontiac Trans Am.
Veyron, an extravagant All-Wheel-Drive supercar designed by VW to bring the Bugatti name back from the brink.

K.I.T.T. employs complex electronics.
Veyron employs complex electronics.

K.I.T.T.'s engine: unknown
Veyron's engine: 8.0L quad-turbocharged W-16

K.I.T.T.'s horsepower: undisclosed
Veyron's horsepower: 1001 advertised (actual 1006 to 1026 SAE net hp)

K.I.T.T.'s top speed: 310+ mph
Veyron's top speed: 250+ mph

K.I.T.T. 0-60 mph: 0.2 neck-snapping seconds with turbo boost
Veyron 0-60 mph: 2.5 seconds

K.I.T.T. 1/4 mile: 4.286 seconds @ 300 mph
Veyron 1/4 mile: 10.80 seconds @ 140 mph

K.I.T.T. limited production of one.
Veyron to be constructed only when ordered, to a maximum of 300.

K.I.T.T.'s driving modes: Auto, Manual, Ski, and Pursuit
Veyron's driving modes: "standard", "handling" and "top speed"

K.I.T.T.'s fuel economy: Classified, but 200 mpg is implied.
Veyron's fuel economy: 5.8 mpg city/10 mpg hwy.

K.I.T.T.'s braking, from 70 mph: 14 feet (only available data)
Veyron's braking, from 252 mph: 10 seconds (only avail data)

K.I.T.T. employs both left & right ejector seats.
Veyron - driver sits within a "survival cell"

K.I.T.T. must rely on either Bonnie or April for required maintenance.
Veyron can be serviced at any of the 20 Bentley dealerships throughout the U.S. Maintenance will be done by a flown-in mechanic, which the company promises to be available 24 hours a day.

K.I.T.T. can drive itself.
Veyron requires a human driver.

K.I.T.T has a microwave jammer.
Veyron costs the same as 9,461 Sanyo EM-Z2100GS microwaves.

---------------
Season 4 of Knight Rider is now available on DVD. Can you say HELLO SUPER PURSUIT MODE!

The Original Ken Jennings

Thursdays I usually head up to ST3's parents place for a fun game of C&C, or sometimes America's Army. I am always greeted by a happy German Shepherd, and ST3's step-mom, H. But I won't see them tonight because ST3 is on patrol with the O.P.P.

H is one of my devoted readers, and, the original Ken Jennings. Yes, H is bursting at the seams with absurd amounts of information, useful and otherwise.

Mostly otherwise.

Do you know what time J.R. was shot at, or what he was wearing? H does. Ever wonder who invented pink lemonade? H knows. Want to know what happened on November 5, 1955? Ask H. Do you know who won Bronze at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics? No, it doesn't matter which event. H. can probably name them all: every country, every event, every forgotten 3rd place finish.

Nearly a decade-and-a-half ago we bugged H to try out for Jeopardy. Even though she seemed to know everything that ever happened on this planet, she had one downfall: time. Although she could always come up with a correct answer, sometimes it would take her 5 minutes to think of it.

When we were in high school a few of us used to play Trivial Pursuit. We would play for an eternity. We weren't very smart. After struggling for hours, the brightest of us would be lucky to have 2 pie pieces.

But everything changed when H came home.

She didn't even want to play. But we forced her because it was fun to see how fast she could beat us. Even if 5 of us teamed up against her, and combined all our pies into one playing piece, it didn't matter. We did not have a chance.

H would start in the middle, just like everyone else did 3 hours earlier. In fifteen minutes she would walk the board, never missing an answer. The game would be over.

Once in a while, if we were really lucky, we'd stump her on some obscure sports question. But even then she could throw a wild guess out there, and, more times than not, it would be right.

Fifteen years before Ken Jennings, there was H. The amount of information in her brain is scary. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if she turned out to be some kind of robot.

Beep Beep, Robo-H. Beep Beep!

Anger: For A Greener Earth

My collection of orange juice boxes is gone. They've gone back into the earth whence they came, via one of my favourite things: recycling.

My workplace does not recycle, in spite of hundreds of blue boxes all over the building. Watching the cleaning staff dump all our recyclables into the garbage along with chicken bones and left-over pasta makes me explode with anger - anger and sadness for our planet, and everyone's wasted efforts.

A long time ago (in a galaxy far, far away), I decided to bring home all my recyclables. Each day I drink two boxes of orange juice and stack them neatly behind my phone at my desk. There they sit for weeks and months, until I remember to bring them home.

Annoying fruit flies live, work and play in my juice boxes. Mice try to drink from the straws, but the cockroaches scare them away. It's a unique environment. And I recycle that environment so that I can help save ours.

My co-workers always ask me why I am saving my juice boxes. When I inform them I'm using them to build Voltron, Defender of the Universe, the questions stop.

Back in the 70s and 80s the message was "Please don't litter." Now, the message should be "please don't throw anything away - recycle instead." It makes me angry to see so many people throw things in the garbage, when there's a recycling bin 1 inch away.

Once Voltron is complete, he'll be programmed to violate anyone who doesn't recycle. Better hope he doesn't come for you.

Roner Takes A Beating

"...Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other."

We have two cats, Beaner and Roner. Beaner is the dominant of the two, often chasing Roner all over the house. When Beaner catches Roner, things get messy.

Beaner is the fatter of the two. Her fatness is both an advantage and disadvantage. Although her chub slows her down, it also helps her block Roner's various escape-routes.

On the weekend just such a thing happened. After a chase, Bean cornered Roner in the basement. Against the ropes, Roner attempted to fight back. But the undefeated Muhammed Beaner gave Roner the pounding of a lifetime, a beating so severe that one of her claws broke free of her paw, lodging itself firmly in Roner's skull.

Roner collapsed.

Luckily we were home at the time and heard the the scuffle. We found Roner in the nick of time. The claw embedded in her brain triggered immense stupidness and forced Roner's tongue to stick out, Stimpy-style.

After some delicate surgery I pulled the claw out of Roner's head. Just as I was completing this task, the police force charged through our front door with weapons drawn. The squad leader screamed at me to "drop the weapon!"

The claw fell to the floor.

It took a few hours to sort things out. An elderly, wrinkled neighbour called 911 after she heard buttery 'gunshots' coming from our house, but it was determined that the 'gunshot' she heard was her microwave popcorn exploding. A strange coincidence. I was happy to be unhandcuffed.

Beaner, on the other hand, was not so lucky. She was charged with assault and remanded in custody. Her bail was set at two Tender Vittles. Suz and I bailed her out that night and took her back home.

Roner was taken to the hospital and underwent cranial pluggage surgery. Seventeen Doctors were happy to report that they stopped her brain from leaking out. They watched her overnight and we took her home the next morning.

Roner is relieved to be home, and Beaner is happy to have her punching bag back again.

CHINAAAA!

Was Survivor on last night? I don't know because I didn't watch it. I don't watch "stupid" TV.

Instead I played Command & Conquer: Generals Online, with my friend ST3, an O.P.P. Auxilliary officer who shares both my wacky sense of humour and dislike of Survivor.

Survivor is not reality TV. 'Reality' implies that this type of thing happens in real life, in other words, reality, as in the opposite of 'made-up'.

What is Survivor? It's a game show. A ridiculously stupid, long game show where morons do moronic things and piss each other off all in the hopes that they'll make it to the end to win the prize. The prize is a hefty $1,000,000 which is just the right amount to buy the original Batmobile, were it for sale.

Everyone seems to believe that the contestants on these shows are just Regular Joe's (no "reality TV" show joke intended). However, about a year ago I listened to a guest on a morning show on a local radio station. She was an aspiring actress, and a contestant on another non-reality TV game show: Fear Factor. She explained in some amount of detail how her agent got her the part on Fear Factor after she didn't get a role on Survivor. She explained how Survivor, and shows like it, were a stepping stone for actors to jump into the acting world.

Is this true? It didn't come from the TV studio, so I can't offer my Martini-guarantee. But I'll tell you this much: I believe her.

Instead of watching Survivor, ST3 and I played C&C Generals. I played as China, as usual. Their particular dialogue always brings a smile to my face. First I constructed a number of bulldozers who "build for China!" No insubordination here.

My dozer crew always gives me great advice, "Sorry sir, dere's no enough build space!" and encouragement, "Ah, it will look real nice when is done" once I've made the right decision.

Helix helicopters declare they're going to "ruin somebody's day" and gattling cannons "have many bullets to spare!" It's a good thing too, because this is war.

But even when the tide has turned against China, the game continues to amuse. As my Nuclear Migs crash to the earth in spectacular explosions, my pilots scream "China going down!!" and my favourite, "CHINAAAAAA!" Dying soldiers, honourable to the very end, cry out "China will not forget me!"

If my bulldozers could build a cemetery, I'd carve that on their headstones.

And when all my ECM tanks have distorted their last signal, and the last of my Chinese Empire has crumbled, I remind my self that it's just a game.

But using Survivor logic, this war with China is reality, simply because I'm a real person and my actions are not scripted. And that just doesn't make a lot of sense now, does it?

Frankenberry - It's Alive!

Just like Dr. Frankenstein in Mary Shelley's classic novel, I decided to create a monster. My Monster cereal supply has been dwindling and I wanted to give my breakfast a jolt of new life.

I've dubbed it Boookenberry! That's right, Boookenberry, with three 'O's. Muhuhahaha!

Satisified with my toothpaste sketch on my bathroom mirror, I headed downstairs to begin the operation. I carefully added Booberry cereal to my bowl. Then, ever so gently, I coaxed an equal amount of Frankenberry cereal into the same bowl. These turned out to be the correct components that I needed, and in the proper proportions.

My experiment was slightly different than Dr. Frankenstein's however. Instead of using electricity to bring my Monster cereal to life, I used a white, milky substance: Bovine juice.

After I poured the liquid onto my new creation, I realized I only had a few minutes to test it before it turned soggy and rotten. Using a spoon, I ate the Boookenberry. The morsels of the mixed cereals crunched between my teeth and the marshmallows slid down my throat.

Success!

I recorded the results of my experiment for future reference, and have hidden the papers. I suspect the government will not be pleased with my fooling with nature. Neither Frankenberry nor Booberry are permitted in my country. I've risked a great deal by bringing them both here.

My hope is to prove, through the success of this experiment, that these two General Mills cereals are not dangerous, either singally, or co-mingled, and should be available to all Canadians.

With this proof, I will eventually bring joy back to our proud country of Frankenberry-loving Canucks.

Suicide

You know what Captain Obvious says: the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

My doctor had a practice he shared with his son, but when my doctor suddenly died in November, the son was left to handle all the patients by himself. My Monday appointment turned into a classic, Martini-style fiasco.

At 2:00 I sat in the crowded waiting room for my 2:15 appt. I knew it would be a long wait - but I didn't have to wait long for some entertainment.

Around 2:30 a woman reeking of perfume sat down in the basement waiting room. The girl beside her had a fit about the perfume, declared to the nurse she was going upstairs where she could breathe, and proceeded to cough all the way up the stairs.

During the next 20 minutes I watched my doctor struggle on crutches to reach each patient's room.

I felt really bad for him. But things were about to get worse. "What The Hell Is Going On Around Here?? Did you forget about me upstairs?" came the screeches of the irate woman.

The nurse tried to calm her down and reassure her that nobody forgot about her. But that's like trying to tell a donkey that he's really a cucumber.

"How much longer do I have to wait?" she screamed. "I can't wait another 2 hours for my appointment! I have to get back to work! My mother had to drop me off here and now I have to get back to work, and it's going to take me an hour because I live in the country! What are you going to do?!"

The nurse said she'd try to speed things up and the irate Janice stormed back upstairs. I glanced around the room. Everybody was staring at the ground, as though afraid for their lives, while I was enjoying the show.

It was 3:15 when Janice returned, yelling as usual. "I can't wait! I have to get back to work! I have been waiting for 2 hours for my appointment! I cannot wait any longer. My appointment was at 2:45 and I can't wait any more! Look at where my file is! Look how many people are ahead of me! LOOK AT WHERE MY FILE IS!" she screamed as she pounded the counter where everyone's file was lined up in appointment-order.

While the nurse tried to calm her down and clam her up, I took a few moments to do some math. I arrived at 2:00 for my 2:15 appt. She was there before me, yet her appt. wasn't until 2:45. Had she gotten to her appt. on-time, she only would have been waiting for 30 minutes. She left work far too early for this 2:45 appt. and only has herself to bla....

My thoughts were interrupted by Janice's frightening explosion of anger. "I CAN'T EVEN GET AN APPOINTMENT WITH YOU BECAUSE YOU NEVER CALL ME BACK! I'M ON SUICIDE WATCH AND YOU DON'T EVEN CARE ABOUT ME! MY DOCTOR DOESN'T CARE ABOUT ME! NOBODY CARES ABOUT ME! AM I SUPPOSED TO CHECK MYSELF INTO THE PSYCH WARD?"

"I did call you back, and that's how you got this appointment." replied the nurse.

Janice disagreed, screaming "NO, YOU DID NOT CALL ME BACK! HOW DO I KNOW THIS? BECAUSE THE POLICE OFFICER WHO IS STAYING AT MY HOUSE ON MY SUICIDE WATCH TOLD ME TO CALL YOU AGAIN AFTER YOU DIDN'T CALL ME BACK! DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO TRY TO TAKE YOUR OWN LIFE? DO YOU??"

"Yes, I do." replied the nurse.

"YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO TRY AND KILL YOURSELF? Janice continued. "YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE ON SUICIDE WATCH? I AM ON THIN EGGSHELLS HERE, AND I HAVE TO GET BACK TO WORK! IF I DON'T WORK, I LOSE MY HOUSE! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT'S LIKE?? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THE DOCTOR?!?"

The nurse answered, "He was hit by a car. Do you know what that's like?"

Janice lied: "Yes, I do!" then asked, "Now What Are You Going To Do To Get Me In?"

The nurse turned to me. But it didn't surprise me. I knew it was coming. That's my luck. I said she could have my spot and they both thanked me. Janice promptly ran back upstairs and I spoke to the nurse, who thanked me over and over again.

In total, I was bumped back eight places, resulting in another 2 hour wait, which I was not prepared for. I chose to reschedule, and left. As I exited the building, I passed Janice who asked, "Yer not leavin' are ya?"

"Yeah. I also have a job." As I walked out the door, I did not turn around. "Other people have problems too you know."

I thought about the whole surreal, absurd event and decided that Janice was not suicidal, nor was she on suicide watch. The things she screamed at the nurse just didn't make sense. I believe, if she did attempt suicide, it was purely for attention, just like her 'display' at the doctor's office.

Ryan Yu, Where Did You Go?

The internet is proving to be more than just a game with difficult levels and tough Kung-fu type bosses. It has turned out to be a pretty useful tool. In "The Fast And The Furious" Domenic found out everything he thought he needed about Brian Spilner on the internet.

I took a page from his book and, using the all-powerful internet, attempted to find my best friend, Ryan Yu, who moved to Sarnia when we were in grade 10.

I tried using Google Maps, which didn't work, because Ryan isn't an address. I ran into the same error on MapQuest as well. I tried entering my own address, and I was astounded to see that Ryan supposedly lived at my house! I looked around but couldn't find him, so it must have been an error.

A few of my best memories of Ry include watching Ed-209 "malfunction" in Robocop, having Zap It watergun fights in the summer, and learning to skateboard. Ryan was good. I stunk. Giving up was inevitable. Mountain biking was more my thing.

Once in a while I searched for Ryan on Classmates.com, hoping he would post himself. He didn't. So I searched for him.

During my searching I came across the above picture, with Ryan Yu front and centre, giving the thumbs up after a Kendo Championship win in 1999. His Kendo group practised at University of Toronto and I assume that U of T was his choice for an institution for higher learning during the mid 1990's.

So where is Ry now? I dunno. That's why I've enlisted a group of ruthless internet minions to help me in my search.

Go, minions, and bring me news of Ryan's whereabouts!

Holy Retirement Plan Batman!

I am a huge fan of Batman, and Jodster reminded me of that fact when he mentioned the 1966 Batmobile in a recent post. As I walked past his computer yesterday, I actually yelled out "Whoa! The Batmobile!" and jumped up beside him to have a closer look at the image on his monitor.

I was instantly reminded of the time I saw the original Batmobile for sale. In October of 1989 my dad and I were attending the Carlisle Car Show, in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. For hours we trudged up and down the gravel & dirt roads lined with classic cars, nearly all of which were for sale.

Among them was The original TV series' Batmobile. I can only assume the owner was trying to cash in on that summer's biggest box office smash, Batman, starring Michael Keaton.

I remember running up to that unmistakable car, sad to find that the owner wasn't around. With no one to talk to, we couldn't ask any questions about the atomic batteries or Batphone. But we did stand there for a long time admiring it, and the hand-painted board describing the incredibly detailed history of the amazing car. The asking price? $10,000 U.S.

Being a teenager and not really knowing the value of a dollar, yet knowing that my dad loved cars enough to have 3 parked in our driveway, I begged him to buy it. I didn't let up for an hour. He actually agreed with me that it would be a great investment. But we simply didn't have the money.

The car was in fair shape, but it definitely needed a restoration. Whoever bought it made a smart move. It now sits in the Petersen Automotive Museum, in Los Angeles, with an estimated value of one million dollars.

All I need to do is go back in time with my DeLorean, buy the original Batmobile, and I can retire.

Living With a Murderer

"I didn't do it. Nobody saw me do it. You can't prove anything."
~ Bart Simpson

Sir Glubs-a-lot lives by these words despite the fact that he has never seen an episode of The Simpsons. As I mentioned the other day, Sir Glubs-a-lot is my 18-inch Sailfin Gibbiceps Pleco from South America. I'd introduce you to him but I wouldn't want you to cut yourself trying to shake his pectoral fin.

Sir Glubs-a-lot has a secret.
Sir Glubs-a-lot is a murderer.

But I have a good relationship with Sir Glubs-a-lot. I can actually reach into the water and "pet" him because we have an understanding: I don't turn him over to the police, and he doesn't kill me.

The last time he killed was the summer of 2005. It was hot. Everybody was agitated. Tempers grew short. Looks were exchanged and territories were violated. I don't know who cast the first evil glance, but it ended in death. With a swift slosh of his deadly caudal fin, Sir Glubs-a-lot forced a tiny Rasbora up into the air, then down onto the floor.

A small fish wouldn't last long on a hardwood floor. The heat of the day didn't help. Within 25 minutes the little Rasbora stopped wriggling. If only I had stayed. I was only gone from the room 25 minutes. But it was enough.

I tried not to cry. But what is a boy to do? Trapped in a home, living with a murderer, afraid to expose the truth, afraid to anger the giant who also protects us in the night.

So I keep his secret. And I sleep soundly.