Free Fog Bastards 1 Intention by Bill Robinson

Did I mention my girlfriend found a set of men's clothes in my car which were too big for me, the morning after a night I begged off being together because I was "tired" from a flight to Denver? Lots of thunderstorms, I told her. Everything late, mentally draining, could we do it tomorrow instead? Then her car won't start in the morning, Starbuck and I race over to get her to work, forgetting that my extra extra large flying clothes are in the back seat. Fuck me. Which means I hardly get to fuck her. And she thinks maybe I'm gay and she's my beard.
     
     
I'd explain, then she'd want to fly like Lois Lane in Superman 1, and I'd drop her or something. "Yes Mr. and Mrs. Wareman, that puddle of goo in the middle of the Hollywood Freeway is your daughter. I'll try to do better next time."
     
     
Actually, I have spent a lot of time thinking on the tell her - don't tell her question, longer actually than I have spent on the love her - don't love her question, because I have an answer to the second one. I just don't want to not be with her. And, I don't know what she'd want if I told her, except I know she'd want to ride the salami, and I don't know if I could handle him fucking my girlfriend. I know he's me, but what if she loved the salami, or he loved her? Or whatever.
     
     
To avoid someone seeing the other me go in and out of my apartment, or worse flying in or out, I have been driving my car to two "safe" parking lots, and only changing into the other me once I am somewhere I know there is no camera.
     
     
Tonight I'm in spot number two, a hotel on Katella near Disneyland. I pop down into the alleyway behind a strip mall next door, smelling of half eaten Chinese food and a few other things I can't recognize. Despite that, I am able to close my eyes, listen to myself breathe, find the inner hand, make it squeeze the light, and grab my pants before they fall off. I am barefoot, and the trash bins do not restrain the goop dripping from them very well, which is why the alleyway is number two on the spot list.
     
     
I have found one accommodation, a kind of stretchy tights/underwear thing that fit both the original and other me. They are ever so slightly large on me (a little extra air flow around the bratwurst turns out to be mildly entertaining), and just a tad tight around the salami, which is probably good so that it doesn't become an extra airfoil during flight. They guarantee that I will never be overexposed, at least I hope they do. I continue to refer to them as "underwear" given that Jen already has too much questionable information. There is a chest covering version of them, which I have yet to try.
     
     
Holding my pants up, I walk over into the well lighted, but uncameraed, parking lot next to the Express Hotel, wipe my feet off with a paper towels I keep in the back, hop into Starbuck, put my shoes on, and head out. Harbor to the 22 to the 405 to the 710 and I'm home in time to shower, change, and get back in Starbuck, back on the 710, back on the 405, etc., etc., etc.....
     
     
I'm not home much, Halloween is mad at me, Jen is not sure about me, the Fog Dude is pissed, I haven't seen my parents in three weeks, and the radio is telling me that a homeless man was injured by falling glass downtown last night. Being Superman sucks.
     
     
Captain Amos is already there when I arrive, and so is Taylor. I don't even try to get in her pants this morning. She gives me a puzzled look.
     
     
"First Officer Packer," she says, "Did you know I am allowed free transit to Hawaii with your flight?"
     
     
I give her my puzzled look.
     
     
She switches to a fake deep manly sort of voice, "No, Ms. Mankat, I did not, but I have a beautiful girlfriend and my father would fire you if you went with us. Can I have my flight plan now, please?"
     
     
Back to her normal voice, "But of course First Office Packer, here is your 461 to Kona plan. I purposefully left you 2,000 pounds of fuel short, just to see if you are paying