I returned to California without telling anyone. The resulting hysteria was comparable to the time my friend's mom unearthed a black dildo while helping her unpack for university. It was called the Cock Locker Monster Dildo and flaunted twelve inches of black fake penis glory.
When I surprised them one of my friends almost fell down. Two cried. All screeched, shrieked and shouted. My mom had a conniption in a peacocky hotel in downtown San Francisco. Security discreetly arrived and then ebbed behind oversized sculptures and paintings when they realized nobody's fingernails were being torn off.
One of the first stories my friends told me involved an airport, a jersey, an old woman, and assault.
A male named Whiskey maintained his ardor and devotion for Michael Vick regardless of the eighteen months he spent in prison for an illegal dog fighting ring transpiring on his Virginia property. Whiskey sustained his support for the football quarterback based on his "athletic achievements." Like a douche bag, Whiskey sported a Michael Vick jersey at LAX, LA's airport, soon after Vick had served his felony charges, was released, and resigned with the Philadelphia Eagles.
Whiskey stood in line, the name Vick mounting the top back of his red jersey. Whiskey's mind was as blank as a whore's sexual slate when she's decided she's a born-again virgin. And then he heard a spitting sound behind him.
"What the..." he ejaculated, turning around to look behind him.
Mildred, an eighty-year-old woman, looked up at him with the rebelliousness of a preacher's daughter who drinks, smokes, and has sex.
"Ya, I did it," she replied, her white hair staggering.
Whiskey punched her in the face.
Both Whiskey and Mildred were detained at the airport, but ultimately released. Punching someone in the face is assault, but so is spitting on someone.