It's true the first edition of Yeung Lap Ming's incursion into the quiet, antiseptic little burg of San Ansnorlmo drew an unprecedented number of almost 300 visitors to Limboland. The profound irony is that the Lapper's return has gone mostly unheralded, which is why Charlie Chan looks like he's about to bite that poor little birdie's head off. As soon as nobody's lookin', that is.
Ok, to bring you up to date, not that it seems anybody seems to care much about the Young Lapper and his BIZ anymore except me and some other blog surfer who claims The Mingler had a BIZ to do with him too. Which doesn't surprise me - he is "Yeung" after all. He could probably be having a BIZ all night long if he wanted to.
My sleep did not improve after the 3AM message from the phony Asian, though it might have improved had I known that Yeung Lap Ming was not a Charlie Chan wannabe smoking under a steaming streetlamp on a rainslicked street in Hong Kong's red light district. But I didn't know, so I was up all night pacing the cool hardwood floor, periodically getting back in bed and reaffixing the CPAP mask, which is what old fellas wear when they don't want to admit to a bad case of sleepy penis and want to be left alone (I supposed it could be his side but then a CPAP mask is hardly a deterrent to a big strong man in the mood for some penis play. On the contrary it's probably an invitation, even for old guys.) When I heard a soft knock on the door at 4:30 I broke into a hot flash sweat. I hadn't even responded to the Ming Daddy's email which was still open, thankfully covered by a screensaver of cute family photos. I popped the CPAP mask off my face but forgot to turn off the machine so it started blasting away just as our wee hours visitor knocked again, a little louder this time, causing Boo the dog to go apeshit in his crate, barking and growling loud enough to wake up my little sweetheart.
"What the fuck?" she grumbled.
"It's the goddamned dog" I didn't mention the knocking.
"Fix that fucking mask, will you? It sounds like fucking Niagara falls in here!"
My little honey can be rather direct some times but she was right; it was a bit loud.
Again, the soft knock. My sweet little 198 lb baby had already rolled over and was now imitating a mountain range under the blankets with one Himalyan monster in the middle, so I quietly padded out the door and down the hall. But I'll be damned if it wasn't darker than a carload of assholes* down the hall; so black on black that a wave of vertigo brought me slowly to my knees and I proceeded to crawl in the general direction of where the front door was supposed to be. Then, as I was crawling through the silent and still darkness my right hand fell upon a shoe. A winged tip, upon further examination; I could feel the little holes. Then my left hand fell upon an identical shoe! A retired physician was standing in my front hall!
(to be continued, or not...) Do ya think it could be the Lapper? Or somebody else? Not a doctor! What the hell would a doctor be doing in my house at 4AM? Unless he knew something I didn't. Like maybe I was having a stroke and this whole story is just a blood clot exploding in my brain?
But what if it's Major Martha Gomez? Or The Donker in disguise? To tell you the truth the way I feel right now I can only quote the great Lowell George and say "I don't care who it is. I just don't wanna talk to 'em now."
*courtesy Stephen King's book on how to become a writer. I think it's a good metaphor so long as you don't think too hard on it. But you know what? That fucker needs a new hobby.
Oh and if u are feelin' philanthropic gwan give lil' Hacky a like. He's startin' to get a complex over there on FB what with folks spittin' in his tin cup and such...www.facebook.com/hacknovel. Spanks!