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June 12, 2007


Oh my God; I'm the comic relief.

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Stacy: Aaaand Advocate Boy!

I am poetry in motion, a death machine on two legs, blue steel and sex appeal.

I plan my approach, moving soundlessly through the trash-strewn alley. There are three perps, crouched over a recently stolen woman’s handbag. I signal my partner on the other end of the alley, and as one, we strike.

He moves too fast, though, the glory hound. He takes out the first two with one blow, as I take aim at the third. I slip and land mask-down in a pool of something vile.

Captain Defender looks at me disgustedly, swishes his cape, and stalks away.

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David: A Place In The World

Everyone believes they’re the star of the movie that is their lives. Most of them are wrong.

Maybe one in a thousand is a star, a main character around which others revolve. Everyone else is a supporting character. They might be the antagonist, a love interest, an old buddy, a bit player, a cameo, an extra, a redshirt, or background decoration—little more than a prop—but not an actual person in the strictest sense.

Me? I’m the funny friend. I exist to lighten the heart of the star and clarify the story’s theme via hijinks. It’s a vital role.

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Dave: As if on cue

There was ... something in the air when I walked in.  Something different.

I looked at them.  Fred and Amy looked at me.

"Wasn't there ... music going on in here a minute ago?" I asked.  "Violins and trumpets and big swelling dramatic John Barry kind of stuff?"

They nodded.

I sighed.  "Why is it, when I enter the room, we get tuba farts and xylophones and jaunty little stings?"

Fred snorted.  "Count yourself lucky.  Sure, I get the big romantic swells when I'm talking with Amy -- but whenever I'm alone, I get all these ominous strings playing minor chords."  He shuddered.  "That doesn't bode well."

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