Four Play

"Repo Man," "13 Ghosts," and "Revenge of the Cheerleaders" were history. Five in the morn ticked closer. When I found myself outside observing "Switchblade Sisters" from a perch on a greasy drive-in auto hump, mere blocks away from the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, a volatile public housing project, and a stinky rubbish landfill, I knew I was living the charmed life.

"The 'Dagger Debs' are a gang of snarling girls, and Maggie is their newest member. Lace, the ever tooth-gritting leader, befriends her but soon has doubts. -- It seems Lace's man, Dominic, head of the 'Silver Daggers,' fancies the new recruit. Lace struggles to keep control of the Debs, and a handle on Nick, as they face off against the rival gang of pushers lead by Crabs." --Amazon.com on "Switchblade Sisters"

"Lace and Nick and Crabs are the bestest friends with which any lad could hang," I heard myself inform a nocturnal scavenger pigeon ambling near a popcorn puff as it tumbled in the faint breeze. I gestured at the motion picture so he knew I wasn't crazy.

My wife, the ever tooth-gritting leader, was asleep in the car. She doesn't understand my hellraising ways. I look at movies under the moon, my darling, stay up until daybreak, and, if I'm rowdy, I chaw a whole pack of Juicy Fruit -- at the same time.

My middle name is Danger (pronounced: "David"). Tonight, I was in the middle of it.

Underneath the giant drive-in theatre screen filled with knife-slashing chicks, I was, obviously, the beverage dispenser of choice for battalions of marauding, blood-sucking insects. They zeroed in on me and flew down to tank up.

Mosquitoes are always bold and dangerous, but this strain was something extra formidable. They had BriteSmiled their stingers.

But I could play that game, too. I removed my jeans, blinding the buggers by the white of my thighs.

The mosquitoes were scared off due to the intense brightness -- and manly sinew, of course.

I finished watching the show, tossed assorted possessions into the car trunk, and directed our wheels through the exit gate.

Donna snored the fearsome wail of "13 Ghosts'" banshee #8 in a screechy serenade which covered our entire drive into the dawn and home.

"I know, dear," I whispered. "You do dig me."