Volume 3, Issue 19
September 13 - September 26, 2001

FULL OF POTENTIAL
@
FAT FENDERS

2490 W. Hampden
303-781-9401

I had been back in town for a few days since my quick exit stage left from South Dakota. It turns out these paramilitary creepers that had almost nabbed me in Sturgis had been asking around Denver about me before heading out that way. That meant only one thing; it wouldn't be long before they were coming back through here. I decided to go underground until I found out exactly who and what I was up against.

"Consider all the facts," I thought as I looked over my notes in the dim light of the basement I was holed up in. OK there are three total in the team that I know of, one is a weasely little guy in a green beret. "Why does that sound so familiar?" I asked aloud as I thumbed through the pages I had compiled. Then there was a guy he referred to as Frenchy, a weird finger sniffer of some sort. I used to know an explosives expert that sniffed his fingers a lot because he loved the smell of C-4; he said it smelled like victory or something like that. I also know a perv that does it for other reasons, so who knows?

Finally there was the big guy mumbling about clowns eating him; I had no frame of reference for that ... clowns don't eat you! They generally just wrap you in a cocoon of a cotton candy-like substance and drink your blood through crazy straws. This guy had obviously lost his grip on reality. The more I pondered the 'facts' the less I knew, and then it hit me! If these guys had been looking for me here before they left they would have been sniffing around the tattoo shop.

I called Big Paul the Prez and ran the whole thing down to him. He said he would get back to me after doing a little sniffing around of his own.

I made a few other calls, one of which was to Go-Go. They acted like nothing was going on, just like I suspected, and told me that the editor wanted to talk to me then put me on hold. I hung up the phone immediately because it was obvious they had been gotten to and had started a trace on my phone.

As soon as I hung up my phone rang, I thought sure they had completed the trace but it was Big Paul. He said he had nailed down the info I was looking for and had paper on it for me. We decided to meet in an hour out on old Hampden at a place he knew. I called Wayne and brought him up to speed, telling him where to meet us.

I thought by the outward appearance of Fat Fenders that it was very small, but looks can be deceiving. Once inside, it was huge! Aside from a sizable restaurant and bar, it had a big dance floor, a pool room, a game room, a stage, and even a 12-foot TV! The whole place smelled of sweet succulent barbecue because this, like every Friday, was all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet day. There was barbecue ribs, barbecue chicken, barbecue pork, barbecue beef, and barbecue beans. The ribs and chicken practically fell off the bone, the beef and pork was so tender that silverware was strictly for aesthetics. And the beans, oh my God the beans ... beans of epic proportions, to which there will be songs sung for ten generations to come!

I looked up from my third plateful, barbecue sauce from my eyebrows to my elbows, and asked Wayne how his food was. He had ordered something from the menu while I was doing the barbecue backstroke up at the buffet. "Uh, what is that you're eating anyway?" I asked, suspiciously eying the breaded something or other on his plate. Then he said something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up! Very matter of factly without the slightest hint of shame he said three words that froze the lymph in my glands: "Rocky Mountain Oysters."

Before I could offer any form of a reply he continued. "I had some in South Dakota last week but they were nowhere near this good." Not only had my bro turned out to be one of that rare breed known as gonadus ingestus, but it turns out he had been doing it all along, right under my very nose! As I was weighing the ramifications of this new info I suddenly remembered why we were here. It wasn't to have some of the best barbecue known to man, though we had. It wasn't to eat things that are much more precious to a bull than I care to know, though some of us had. It wasn't even to learn frightening new things about my friend's habits, though I had. No, it was to get the necessary info about these paramilitary creepers that were on my tail.

"So Paul what did ya find out?" I asked while still suspiciously eyeing the stuff on Wayne's plate. The Prez pushed a back issue of Go-Go across the table toward me. It was folded back to my column, so I started to read. "I didn't write this," I protested. Paul just nodded and motioned for me to read on. The story outlined how my editor, fearing that I had been abducted, had donned his green beret, got together with a couple of his buddies and had mounted a search for me.

An image of a tattered green beret hanging on the wall in the editorial office started coming into focus. How many times had I had stared right at it while listening to allegations and reprimands? That's it! The little guy in the beret was my editor! Then it all started falling together right before me. Frenchy was really Delbert, our copy guy. And he is the perv that I know, always sniffing his fingers. The big quiet guy was Sol, the delivery driver. They brought him for two obvious reasons. The first, because he is the only one who can get the 1952 delivery van in and out of second gear without a hammer. The second, and more important reason was because none of them had a car. All this meant something I had never even dared dream of! Maybe the reason I'm always being called on the carpet isn't because the editor hates me! Maybe it's more like the teacher being hard on a particular student because of seeing wasted potential. That's it! I'm like some sort of unrealized literary prodigy. He has just been trying to inspire me to the greatness I've been meant for all along! When I called Go-Go back to thank all involved, my editor got on the phone and began in with the usual rant. "Who do you think you are? Where the hell are you? Where's my review?" Then there was something about irresponsibility, lackadaisical attitude, poor excuse for ... it went on, but all I could hear was the roar of the crowd as I gave my Writer Of The Year acceptance speech.

It was all I could do to fight back the tears as I said, "You're the best, man, and my first Pulitzer is dedicated to you." As I hung up I thought could hear him saying, "Hello, who is this?" A

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