Date: Sat, 19 Apr 2008 13:12:00 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: "FORK IN THE ROAD," Chapter 19 REPLACEMENT

FORK IN THE ROAD
By Scott Turner
Chapter 19


If you come to a fork in the road, take it."
-Yogi Berra


Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that occasionally contains rather
graphic depictions of sexual activity between consenting adult men.  If
that's not your cup of tea, or if it is illegal for you to possess or read
such material, then please go elsewhere.  This story is copyrighted, 2008,
and may not be reproduced, reposted or published without the expressed
permission of the author.



	Scott had just finished unpacking after the trip to Florida.  He
was recalling the past week with a satisfied smile on his face and an
occasional twitch down below when the phone rang.  Brett shouted from the
living room.  "Hey!  Tan boy!  Phone's for you."

      Scott finished bagging up the dirty laundry and hurried out.  "Hello?
This is Scott."

      The voice on the other ended sounded familiar.  "Hey, Scott!  This is
Tim!"

      "Uhm...Tim?"


 	"Mayer you dumb shit.  Tim Mayer.  Remember your center fielder?"
Tim and Scott had played ball together in high school and were pretty good
friends.  They both shared an interest in politics, with Tim coming at all
things from the far right wing.  They mixed it up a lot on political
issues, but weren't so close as to keep in touch regularly after
graduation.  Tim had gone off to UW-Green Bay to get his accounting degree
and play baseball.

      Scott's face lit up.  "Timmy!  How the hell are you?"  He sat down,
still grinning.  "You're in Green Bay, right?  Still playing ball up there,
aren't you?"


      	"You got it.  School's going good, have a beautiful `main squeeze'
and the team keeps me busy."


      	Scott petted the dog's head when it landed on his knee.  "Atta boy,
Timmy.  Titties and fly balls.  Sounds like you're living large.  So,
what's up?"

  Tim sighed.  "Well, word is that you're still the political geek you were
back in the day.  Working at the capitol I hear, and doing the student
government thing."


	Scott shrugged.  "Keeps me busy and out of trouble."

      Tim hesitated.  "Well, then what can you tell me about this special
election up here between Shannon Lombardi and Morris Jardine?  The vote is
coming up and the airwaves, ads and fliers are hopping with all sorts of
trash.  I didn't often agree with you when it came to politics, but I'm not
sure what to make of all the crap coming out.  They're both relative
unknowns."

      Scott frowned.  "What do you mean by `trash' and `crap?'  Who's
saying what?"

      Well, there are ads in the paper accusing Jardine of not paying taxes
in two out of the last four years.  Last week I get a mailing that claims
he's an irresponsible alcoholic, and today I get a flyer in my mailbox that
says he has a record, and I'm quoting here, `a record of sympathy toward
pedophiles and wife abusers.'"

      Scott scratched his head.  "Tim.  Look at the fine print on the
bottom of those fliers.  They have to have a disclaimer that says
`authorized and paid for by...'  Is Shannon Lombardi's name anywhere on
there?"

      There was a pause.  "Nope.  They both say `Authorized and paid for by
the Greater Midwest Economic Opportunity Committee.'"  He paused again.
"Ya' know, Scotty, normally I'd be in line with this Jardine guy's
politics, but he's lookin' like a serious sleaze bag."

      Scott shook his head.  "Okay Timmy, I understand, but this looks like
what's called an independent expenditure.  Sometimes a third party will
come into a state or a district and throw mud against somebody rather than
standing for somebody or something.  I'll bet none of those ads actually
come out and say, `Vote for Shannon Lombardi.'

      Tim scanned the entire message one more time.  "No, they don't"

      "Well, you know that Lombardi is running with my party, but I don't
know a lot about her and haven't had a thing to do with the campaign.
Normally, I'd be inclined to vote for her.  With crap like this, though, I
might vote against her, or maybe not at all.  But I'd also dig for the
source of the shit and let `em know that these tactics don't fly with me."

      They chatted another half hour and got all caught up on the months
that had passed since high school.  Finally, Scott stood and stretched.
"Well, friend, I need to get to the Laundromat.  Just got back from a week
in Florida and the laundry bag smells a little ripe from sweaty, dirty
clothes.  Vote your conscience, okay?  And hit `em hard and long this
season."

      Tim snorted.  "You sound like my girlfriend.  She likes it hard and
long too."



      Over the next few days, Scott did some digging.  One of the most
infamous ads in that race complained that Jardine, as a lawyer, had
defended and advocated for a pedophile. What the ad didn't say was that
early in his career, Jardine had served as a public defender.  Truth is,
public defenders don't get to choose their clients.  They are assigned by
judges with no debate or discussion.  Nor did the ad say that the accused
was convicted and served the full term of his sentence.  Jardine had not
advocated any early release or parole.  The man was now a registered sex
offender in a county-supervised group home and was on an electric
monitoring system.  Another ad accused Jardine of public drunkenness and
reckless behavior.  True enough, eleven years earlier, he'd been cited for
driving while being barely over the legal blood-alcohol limit.  He pled
guilty, paid the fine and sat out his suspended license period with his
wife driving him to the office. Another ad complained that he was tax
evader.  Indeed, twice in the past four years he'd filed for an extension
on his federal income tax, so he didn't actually file on time in those two
years.

      Scott shook his head.  `Yep, a real-life hard drinking, tax cheating
pervert.  An eleven-year old case of bad judgment behind the wheel that he
immediately took responsibility for and paid the price, two perfectly legal
tax maneuvers, and then he had the audacity to do his assigned job as a
public defender.  Maybe we should just take him out and shoot him.'  He
shook his head again.  `Un-fucking real.'

      The next morning he went down to the Chief Clerk's office.  "
G'morning, C.C.!  Keeping everybody in line today?"

      Her wide face beamed and several chins quivered.  "Scott!  How are
you dear?"

      He winked at her.  "Same old, same old.  Just hoeing a few political
rows for the majority."

      She leaned on the counter, her ample bosom resting comfortably on the
rich wood countertop.  "And you have some more homework for your favorite
girl in the clerk's office?"

      He nodded.  "I think I know the answer here, but wanted to check with
the final authority.  Don't all the groups that spend money on independent
expenditures for elections need to register with the state?"

      She rolled her eyes.  "Oh, you'd better believe it!  They're free to
run the ads they want, and take the consequences if they mess up with libel
or slander.  Plus they can't directly plan or coordinate with the campaigns
themselves."  She smiled and winked.  "But they have to let us know ahead
of time who they are and that they intend to be politically active in our
elections."

      Scott had already written down the unwieldy name of this phantom
committee that had targeted Lombardi's opponent.  "What can you tell me
about this group?"

      She looked over her glasses.  "Well, about all we'll have is the one
page form they fill out with the name or names of their officers and where
they're from.  The form doesn't ask what their politics are, where they get
their money or anything like that."

      Scott shrugged.  "I'll take what I can get."  He winked again.  "You
know me.  I'm easy."

      C.C. giggled and waved a hand as she headed for her computer.  "Not
easy enough honey.  Wish you had a hankering for an overweight broad who's
old enough to be your mother."

      He blushed.  "Afraid I'd be out of my league there, my dear."

      About two minutes later he walked out of the office scanning the copy
she'd handed him.  "Frank Martine?  Iowa?  Who in Hell is Frank Martine?"



      He'd heard the early returns on the late news before turning off the
lights, and then read the full story in the morning paper.  About forty-six
thousand votes cast in the district and Lombardi had won the special
election by exactly 811 votes.  `Wonder if one of those was Tim's' Scott
asked as he sipped his coffee.  He was disgusted.



      Scott was taking a mid-morning breather in the break room when Penny
Harrington walked in looking pretty stressed.  "Penny!  What brings you
down to this neck of the woods?  I though you full timers had your own
coffee maker down in your lavish, more opulent break room."  Scott was
being partly sarcastic, but only partly.

      Penny stirred the powdered creamer into her Styrofoam cup.  "About
that drink after work...?"

      Scott filled his mug and glanced left.  "Huh?"

      She stopped her stirring and looked him in the eye.  "You once said
if I wanted to go out and have a drink after work I should let you know."
Her gaze was a serious one.

      Scott paused.  "I see.  I do remember that.  So, it's time we had a
drink after work, huh?"

      Penny started toward the door.  "Oh yeah, in a big way."

      "Let's meet across the street at the Inn.  I'm not legal yet, but
know the host and one of the bartenders there pretty well, so it won't be a
problem."

      Penny sipped the bad coffee.  "See you around five thirty?"

      He nodded.  "See you then."

      They nearly ran into each other as they approached the front door of
the Inn on the Park.  Scott was empty handed, but he noted that Penny wore
and attaché on a shoulder strap.  "Allow me," Scott said as he opened the
door for her.

      She smiled and nodded.  "Well, thank you very much.  You're right on
time!"

      He followed her in.  "As are you.  An admirable quality."  On the way
through the lobby, Scott asked, "So, how'd it go with Maureen?  You did get
an interview for her chief's job, right?"

      She shrugged.  "Yeah, it went well, but I got the call a few weeks
ago.  She's looking for somebody with more experience in the law.  I'm
guessing she'd like to hire a chief that will move to the Justice
Department with her, assuming she wins in November.  My resume doesn't have
enough of that."

      Scott nodded.  "Sorry to hear that, but I guess it makes sense.  But
you're still looking to get out?"

      She nodded.  "I'm on my way out now.  Let's sit down and I'll fill
you in."

      Scott's anticipation was obvious.  "So, what's up?"

      "Well, I've finally had enough of the political bullshit.  There was
an opening in the chief clerk's office I applied for, and I start over
there on Monday."

      Scott's eyes widened.  "Carolyn Comstock!  Make her your best friend
as soon as you get there!"

      Penny used her hands to pantomime C.C.'s build.  "She's the short,
uhm..."

      Scott laughed.  "She's definitely a wide body, but it's all heart.
The nicest person you'll ever meet.  And, I have a strong feeling that she
knows where all the `bodies are buried' around there.  I think her
longevity is a function of her ability and willingness to keep her mouth
shut, but I'll bet she knows where all the landmines are in that place.
She'll be a great ally if you ever need one."

      Penny rolled her eyes.  "I might need one before too long.  Frick's
really pissed that I'm leaving."

      Scott crossed his legs and scratched his chin.  "Okay, Penny, what's
up?"

      She slapped the table.  "You were right.  When we talked about the
campaign stuff a couple months ago, you were absolutely right."  She
unzipped the shoulder bag she'd been carrying.  "When Will Maxson left,
Senator Frick called us all into a meeting one afternoon to say that he'd
be managing the caucus until Mr. Maxson's replacement was hired, probably
throughout the summer at least."  She pulled out a manila folder.

      He glanced at the folder, and then looked back into her eyes.
"And..."

      She sighed.  "I'm a great note-taker, Scott.  The son of a bitch
won't e-mail anything to any of us on the campaign stuff.  He won't hand
out hard copies of what the plans are either, but I can take notes like a
bitch on wheels."

      He paused.  "Aaaannnd?"

      She sniffed and wiped her nose.  "Well, Will's retirement had just
gone public and Frick laid out his plans and expectations."  She handed him
the folder.  "Point One: You, Mr. Turner were off limits, persona non
grata.  You're apparently too close to Senator McCarthy and asking too many
questions when given particular tasks.  Two: A `shadow schedule' of where
each of us would go and when.  The `official' schedule for payroll wouldn't
reflect any of that shit, but he had the six of us scheduled out of the
office for one or two days a week, working on campaigns.  Three: he bragged
about a group he'd helped organize that was ready and willing to pump money
into the media markets in targeted districts.  He came right out and said
that he was working with the candidates and their committees to write the
so-called `appropriate' attack ads and coordinate the timing of their
placement."

      Scott's eyes grew wider.  "In addition to the campaigning on state
time, it's illegal for independent groups to have any direct contact or
coordination with any candidate's campaign."

      Penny sipped her drink and nodded knowingly.  "And Frick rationalizes
it this way: He's the middle man between the so-called independent group
and the candidates' campaigns.  In his mind, that keeps it legal.  This
GMEOC group's leaders don't have any direct contact with the campaigns
themselves."

      Scott smirked.  "Pretty thin ice, methinks.  I'd love to see that
tested in court."  He took a minute to scan the five pages of notes and
looked back at her in amazement.  "These are incredibly specific,
Ms. Harrington.  And you know a lot of this shit is unethical at best and
illegal at worst."

      She threw her hands up.  "Why the hell do you think I'm running
away?"  Her voice cracked.  "I'm a newbie to Wisconsin and don't feel I owe
the good people here a damned thing.  But," she slapped the table again,
"this is just f'ing wrong.  Legal or not, it's just plain wrong."  She
wiped her eyes, blew her nose and sighed again.  "So, now what do I do?"

      Scott pinched his nose.  "Nothing, yet.  Report to C.C.'s office on
Monday and start learning the new job."  He thought about it for another
few seconds.  "Two questions.  One, can I have these, or a copy of these
notes?  And, two, would you be willing to talk to a friend of mine who is
interning with the `State Journal?'"

      "Do you think I can keep my name out of it?"

      Scott mulled it over.  "With my buddy Grant, probably.  If the
dipshits at `The Journal' decide they want to run a story, you could maybe
be the proverbial `unnamed source.'  But if this blows up and goes legal,
I'll bet you'll be subpoenaed to at least give a statement.  If it goes all
the way to a courtroom, you could wind up sitting in a witness stand."

      Now she was really crying.  She whimpered, "Oh God!  That's the last
thing me or my family needs; me sitting there admitting to breaking the
law.  I'm not a headline seeker, Scott.  I just want to hold a decent job,
love my husband and raise my kids."

      He leaned onto the table.  "Penny, you know I'm not a parent.  But it
seems to me that a big part of raising those kids is doing the right
thing...stepping up to bat, even when it cramps your style."  He snickered.
"You never met her and never will, but one of the most important voices in
my life was my Gran', Evelyn Turner.  That old gal went to jail more than
once for the right causes and would be chewing your ass right now for
having any second thoughts."  He paused.  "And, I'm afraid, she'd be right.
She usually was."

      He got serious.  "Penny, I've already talked to my buddy Grant at
`The Journal' about my thoughts on some of this shit,' and he's said my
suspicions were just that, `cuz everything was second-hand at best.  I'd
like to tell him, with your permission, that I have a friend with a
first-hand, birds eye view of all this crap.  I'd like to put you in touch
with him."

      She moaned a measure of resignation.  "You're right.  Give him a call
and set it up.  This B.S. deserves a complete public airing.  I'll do what
I can."

      Scott grinned widely.  "Now you're talking, girl!  My Gran' would be
proud!"  He reached out and grabbed her hand.  "You don't know it, but
that's high praise."

      As he walked back to his car he hit the speed-dial number for Grant's
office phone.  "Corny!  It's Scott.  Call me as soon as you get into the
office in the morning!"



      The following afternoon, Marty was standing at the concession stand
holding Lil' Scotty. Ashley's right index finger was hooked into one of his
belt loops when he saw Scott's car drive into the lot.  "There he is,
honey.  That's Scott's car!"  Ashley bolted for the gate.  "Whoa!"  She
stopped in her tracks and waited for him to catch up.  Marty looked down.
"What did you just do wrong, honey?"

      She looked up with a contrite expression.  "I ran away in a crowd.
I'm not supposed to run away in a crowd.  I'm sorry, Daddy."  She was
getting better at pronouncing those rs.  He patted her head.  "That's
right.  Let's not forget that."  Then he thought, `just so long as you
don't ever stop calling me Daddy.'

      They walked quickly toward the car.  Scott stepped out, locked it and
waved.  He crouched down and threw his arms open.  Marty scanned the lot
for moving traffic.  "Okay, Ash.'  Go get `im!"

      The little girl in the pink windbreaker nearly knocked him on his
ass.  "Scooooott!"  She strangled him as he scooped her up and stood.

      He planted kisses all over both cheeks, and blew a raspberry into her
neck.  She giggled and swatted his shoulder.  Marty and his son arrived.
Marty used his free arm to give his friend a hug.  Scott's godson got a big
kiss on the cheek.  Ashley held Scott's hand as they walked back toward the
field.  He looked down.  "Ever been to a baseball game, hon'?"

      She shook her head.  "I think Daddy watches them on TV sometimes and
they sometimes make him say bad words."

      Marty looked down.  "Now honey.  Nobody can make me use bad words.  I
sometimes make bad choices when I get irritated.  I need to learn better
self control."

      They walked toward the entrance, stopping at Marty's vehicle to
retrieve Lil' Scotty's car seat to secure to the bench in the stands. They
walked about a dozen rows up in the stands behind the home team's bench.
Scott turned and asked, "She's sleeping I assume?"

      Marty nodded.  Probably will be for a few hours.  Her brothers both
flew in for a couple weeks and they're there now.  He was strapping his son
into his seat, and Ashley was already rummaging through her little backpack
for her coloring book.  She settled in next to her brother.  Scott sat on
the other side of the toddler and Marty sat to his left.  "I won't be able
to stay for the whole game, but it does me good to get out of there for a
little while.  Scott nodded.  Then Marty grinned and muttered out of the
side of his mouth, "Plus, baseball uniforms are tied with football for
showing off nice looking butts.  Scott grinned, and Marty continued, "Can't
wait to see Greg in a uniform."

      Scott smirked.  "Those tight pants do his whole package justice,
front and back."

        Marty jerked his head and scoffed.  "Horn dog."

      Scott gave him a `what can I say' grin and a shrug, then asked, "So,
what's the latest?"

      Marty sighed.  "Well, she's still cancer free, but we've been there,
done that before.  Christ, this disease is a real roller coaster,
physically and emotionally.  It's not picky and tears apart the body and
beats at the soul.  And now we're fighting a war on another front.  You
ever heard of hospital sicknesses?"

      "Huh?  No."

      "Scotty, you have no idea how many people get sick from being in the
hospital!"

      "What?"

      "Well, don't get me wrong here.  It makes sense, and I'm not blaming
anybody, but it's wildly ironic.  You get somebody like Jill whose immune
system is already seriously compromised because of the treatment she's
getting to make her well.  And where are they doing this?  In an
environment teeming with all sorts of bacteria and icky shit that she can
pick up.  It's a `Catch 22: `You need to come in so that we can try to make
you all better, and in the process you might well be exposed to shit that
will make you seriously sick.'"

      Scott stared for several seconds.  "And now she's seriously sick
again but it's not the cancer.  It's something she picked up because she
was there being treated for the cancer?"

      His friend nodded.  "There you go, professor.  It's called VRE,
`Vancomycin Resistant Emtreococci.  It's a bacterial infection that has
here sicker than hell!  She'll be there for a time now while they try to
beat this shit and keep an eye on the ALL at the same time.  And it ain't
pretty."

      "And what are you gonna do?"

      Marty turned his hands toward the blue sky and he sighed.  "Going to
take turns coming up here.  Me, her parents, my mom, her brothers as long
as they're here, and we'll bring the kids when possible.  I'll talk to her
on the phone a few times every day, and she won't be alone much, but with
the job and the kids..." The stress was oozing from him now.  Scott wanted
to pull him into a hug and hold him.  "We're hopeful we'll have her back
home by this time next week."

      "Anyway, she needs to stay cancer free for a while.  After all of her
ups and downs, the doc's are saying that one more round of chemo might be
needed and there's a chance it could be the `silver bullet.'  But with each
treatment that doesn't get the job done, the likelihood that the next one
is going to do the trick gets less and less.  Shit!  I always thought
`cancer free' meant `cured.'  Far from it!

      "So, a bone marrow transplant could well be on the horizon.  Her
folks have both been tested for compatibility, but the match they were
looking for wasn't good enough.  The brothers are having blood drawn today
when I get back there.  And they're scouring the national registry of
marrow donors for somebody who is a perfect match.  It's kind of like DNA:
there's `no dice, `not even close,' `fairly compatible but not close
enough,' and there's `a perfect match.'  In her condition, they said less
than perfect fit probably wouldn't be a permanent solution, and could make
matters worse."  He paused and sipped his Coke.  "By the way, sign on with
the national donor registry, will you?  Folks like Jill need you.  You
never know.  You could be a life saver for somebody out there you've never
met, but who needs you."

      Scott nodded.  "Send me the info and I'm there."

      As Greg came to bat Marty leered and smiled.  "You weren't shi...er
kidding me."  He kicked it down to a whisper.  "Not only his butt is
looking hot, but is he stuffing his jock with something?"

      Scott winked.  "Oooh yeah.  He's stuffing it with him...it's aaalllll
him.  Even more impressive without the uniform."

      Marty nudged him.  "F'ing' Ay!  Ain't you the lucky one?"  Scott just
smiled.

      With a count of three and two, Greg took a pitch without moving the
bat.  Certain that he'd just earned a stroll to first base on balls, he was
halted three steps down the line when the umpire bellowed "Steeerike
Three!"  Greg turned and glared, absolutely stunned, but he said nothing.

      Marty was on his feet.  "Jesus Christ, ump!  What game are you
watching?  Does the phrase low and outside mean anything to you?  Another
proud graduate of the Ray Charles school of balls and strikes, huh?"

      Scott grabbed his forearm.  "Sit down!"  He looked over at Ashley.
"Honey, this is definitely NOT self control, okay?  Don't do this."  She
just glanced up, unphased by her stepfather's performance.

      Marty persisted.  "Or are you just making it even after some of those
lousy calls against Michigan in the last inning?"

      Scott tugged on the arm.  "Dammit, Marty, sit down and zip it!
You're going to embarrass him.

      "The ump?  Good!"

      "No.  You're going to embarrass Greg.  Now, please, sit down."

      Even some of the Michigan fans within earshot laughed and some
actually applauded.

      "Well, as long as you said `please.'"  He finally sat down.

      Greg picked up the bat he'd tossed and stormed back to the dugout.
But halfway there he looked up into the stands, grinned a little and
nodded.

      Marty elbowed Scott.  "See?  He doesn't look embarrassed to me.  He
knows I'm right and is happy for my support."

      Scott shook his head and sighed.

      Marty's tone shifted to serious.  "So, how's he doing these days?"
Scott had shared the disaster that was their trip up north, and some of the
aftermath once they both got back to back in Madison and started speaking
again.

      Scott's face brightened.  "A lot better!  The counseling is doing a
world of good and his family life is, bit by bit, becoming a thing of the
past.  He's less shy, more confident in practically every way."

      Marty elbowed him and winked.  "Every way?"

      Scott grinned and elbowed him back.  "Every, every singly way.  We
had a great week getting away to Florida.  We met some really cool guys in
Orlando, and me and Greg spent some very fine quality time together."

      Marty giggled and winked.  "Details!"  He glanced at the kids.  "One
of these days when discretion is less important, I want aaaaallll the
details."  He gestured toward the field.  "And I'll bet now that the season
is under way all the positive vibes that he gets around here are helping a
lot too.  Didn't you say that playing for Wisconsin has been, like, his
lifelong dream?"

      Scott sighed.  "Yeah.  And now it's finally really happened."  His
heart sank into the pit of his stomach and he could feel his cheeks and
ears becoming flush.

      Marty sighed again.  "Anyway, about Jill's deal, even with a
transplant there's no promise.  And with most transplant patients it brings
an entirely new set of nightmares

      Scott scrunched up his face.  "How's that?"

      Marty pursed his lips, looked to the sky and he shook his head.
"Delightful little thing called `Graft versus Host Disease.  GvHD."

      Scott frowned.  "Sounds ugly just by the name."

      "Here's how it works.  They find a donor that looks like the perfect
fit.  They introduce the donor marrow, `the graft,' into the patient, `the
host.'  The donor's healthy cells still carry their immunity to disease,
which is a good thing.  But, cells being cells, they do what cells are
programmed to.  The new cells detect and hunt down all these other
malignant host cells.  Doesn't matter that the graft cells are the guest
and are there to make things better.  They're programmed to make things
better by attacking the bad cells.  So, they go after them to wipe them
out.  Full scale attack by the newcomers against the body of their host.

      "You know how you hear or read about an organ transplant where the
body rejects the new liver or heart or whatever?"  Scott nodded.  "This is
kind of the same thing, but in reverse.  The new marrow is rejecting the
body it's been transplanted into, and it's attacking it.  It can raise all
sorts of long-term physical shit, from head to toe: ongoing hair loss,
painfully dry eyes, dry and cracked lips, intermittent bouts of fever, all
sorts of stomach and intestinal issues that I won't gross you out with.  It
can range from annoying to painful to life threatening.  I've even read
about patients needing to have toes or more amputated to fight that crap.
And that shit can go on for years, or what's the rest of her life."  He
shook his head.  "It's possible that the patient can die from the cure, if
that makes sense.  And if they don't die from it, they merely suffer from
the cure for what's left of their lives."  He sniffed again and shook his
head.

      Scott shook his head in unison.  "Fuck.  I had no idea."

      So, we're in this for the long haul.  Even the best case scenario of
keeping her alive isn't exactly pretty."  His eyes welled with tears.  He
leaned forward and looked past Scott to the kids.  Ashley was ignoring the
game, coloring and humming what sounded like "American Pie."  Lil' Scotty
was asleep with a bit of drool on his chin.  "But we all need her around.
I can't bear," he choked and gasped, "to even think about the alternative."

      Scott squeezed his arm.  "Then don't.  Jill's going to be there when
you give Ashley away at her wedding, and then to enjoy and spoil her
grandkids.  She's gonna be there when Lil' Scotty gets his first underage
drinking ticket or when he streaks across Camp Randall."  Marty laughed and
wiped his eyes.

      About a half hour later, Greg came to the plate again.  Marty
clapped.  "About time.  He checked his watch.  I'll get to see the lad
smack one and then we're going to need to head back to the hospital."

      With a man on second, Greg took his stance and he did indeed smack
one.  The first pitch was rocketed into deep left field.  Greg was rounding
first before the ball bounced off the wall.  He was rounding second by the
time the left fielder scampered around and caught up with it and took a
stance to fire it to third.  The man who had been on second was easily
across the plate, breaking a tie and putting the Badgers up by one.  He had
enough time to turn and see Greg's flawless head first slide stretching the
hit into a triple.  Greg stood and brushed the infield dust off his chest,
stomach and thighs.  His heart was pumping but he managed to make it look
nonchalant, even cool.

      Marty stood up jumped and cheered wildly.  As he took his seat he
watched Greg.  "Jesus.  He stands there looking like it's no big deal.
Cool as a cucumber.  Shit!  I'd be hopping up and down making faces at the
pitcher and the third baseman."

      Scott laughed and nodded.  "Yeah, but inside he's exploding, probably
close to wetting himself.  He knows there are scouts here.  Only a freshman
and having a very good season."

      Marty squeezed Scott's neck.  "Well, you got your hands full there,
friend.  The guy's got a future here."

      Scott's heart sank again, but he stood and smiled.

      Marty pulled him into a hug and whispered into his ear.  "Plus, he
looks even hotter when he's running.  They hugged again, right there in the
stands, neither one caring if anyone stared.  Scott whispered.  "Keep me
posted, right?"

      The batter following Greg was struggling and hit four consecutive
foul balls.

      Marty winked.  "Ha!  You just try to avoid it."  He turned around and
looked down.  "Awright, lil' doggies.  Let's load `em up and head `em out.
Ashley, will you unhook the seat.  We'll let the little guy sleep and I'll
carry him to the car like this.  And you're gonna do what?"

      She looked up impatiently.  "I'm gonna grab on to your back pocket
and hang on `til we get to the car."  She peered around him.  "But I need a
hug from Uncle Scott first."  Scott sat and opened his arms.  Ashley darted
around her dad and climbed on top of his thighs.  She gave him another
strangle hold and he blew another raspberry into the crook of her neck.
She giggled and smacked him again.  "Quit that, silly!"

      "I only do it to people I really, really love."  He looked her
straight in the eye.  "You once told me that you'd take care of your little
brother, and it looks like you've done a great job.  You're a good taker
carer of."  She grinned and nodded.  "Now, honey I want you to take good
care of your mommy."

      Her eyes got very wide.  "I know Uncle Scott.  Mommy's very, very
sick.  But I'm taking as good a care of her as I know how.  And her doctors
and nurses are very nice and helpful."  She thought about it.  "She's gonna
be just fine."  She looked up with a question in her eyes.  "Isn't she,
Daddy?"

      Marty cradled the car seat on both forearms and smiled down.  "Darn
tootin', pardner.  She's gonna be fit as a fiddle before we know it."

      Ashley rolled her eyes and looked up at Scott.  "He talks funny
sometimes."

      Three more foul balls, and Scott could see that Greg was becoming
impatient stranded on third base.

      Scott leaned down and kissed her forehead.  "He does a lot of funny
things sometimes.  Keep an eye on him for me too, will you?"

      She nodded, slid off of Scott's thighs and locked all the right hand
fingers except her thumb into the back pocket of Marty's jeans as they
worked their way toward the aisle.  She turned back to Scott.  "But do I
have to do everything?"

      Scott smiled and nodded as he waved goodbye.  Marty turned as they
started down the steps and just winked.  "I'll give you a call."

      Scott waved again.  Finally, as he took his seat, the foul balls
ended and the guy hit a blooper into short right; too deep for the first
baseman and too short for the right fielder to meet.  Greg jogged across
the plate and ate up the high fives from his teammates.  It was his third
consecutive game with at least one run scored and at least one RBI.  He
looked up into the stands, smiled and waved.



      After the game, Scott hung around in the stands while the team met in
the dugout for a post-game with Coach Bidwell.  As everybody else walked to
their cars, Greg grinned at Scott, sitting alone in the stands.  He clomped
up the steps and took a seat next to Scott.

      "Good game.  Better butt."

      Greg smiled.  "Thanks, to both.  So, what's on the schedule this
evening."

      "Well, I need to head over to the WSA office and put in a couple
hours...alone.  All by myself in that whole building."

      Greg nudged him with an elbow.  "You know, I don't think I've ever
seen your seat of power.  You know that it's said that power is the
ultimate aphrodisiac.  What if I showered up, changed clothes and happened
to wander into that little building at, say, six o'clock or six thirty?"

      "I could give you the grand tour of my office.  And you could pick.
Do you want to see the desk top up close, the carpeting up close or the
ceiling from a bit more of a distance?"

      Greg licked his lips seductively.  "I think I need the whole tour."

      Scott stared at him.  "I could arrange that.  I'll leave the front
door to the building open.  Lock it behind you and then come upstairs."

      When the bell rang at the front door, Scott stood and shut off the
ceiling light, leaving his desk lamp on.  He opened his office door as far
as he could and still hide behind it.  He could hear Greg's quick steps and
he grinned.  `Horny boy,' he thought.

      After he entered the office, but before he could even look around or
call Scott's name, Scott slammed the door behind him.

      Greg was about to protest about the start when Scott reached forward
and pulled him close by the shoulders.  They kissed hard and wet.  Scott
broke it off by pushing Greg back into a chair and falling to his knees
between Greg's thighs.  At first he gave a leering, lustful grin up at his
obviously surprised and very pleased buddy.  Then he slid his hands up
Greg's taut thighs and finally began to knead the bulging package between
them.  Scott looked up again.  "Need to present you with your
congratulatory blow job after tonight's win."

      Greg offered a husky chuckle.  "But we've had plenty of wins this
season and this is the first..."

      Scott interrupted as he undid the drawstring of Greg's sweat pants.
"Yeah.  Wish I'd have though of it sooner."

      In seconds Scott had tugged Greg's sweats down to his knees and had
gripped the growing member a few inches from his nose.  He smelled of soap,
which was nice, but Scott aimed to change that.  Scott stuck out his tongue
and slowly danced its tip across and around the rapidly pumping glans.
Greg's head fell back in the chair and he gasped.  Scott pushed Greg's
sweatshirt up his abs and moved up to kiss and lick his hard stomach and
cute innie navel.  Then he held the shaft in place and lowered his head,
sucking first the left and then the right nut into his mouth.  He grabbed
the sack with his other hand and slowly lapped up the hot, hard shaft.

      Then, without warning, Scott encircled the base with his fingers and
held it out, thrusting his open mouth forward.  Greg's mouth dropped open,
he gripped the arm of the chair and his ass came up off the seat.
"Aaaaawwwww, Jesus.  Goddammit, Scotty!  Yeah!"

      Scott was certain he'd never be able to swallow all of Greg's nine
inches, but tonight he was game to try.  When the head of the meat hit his
throat and he gagged, he eased off a bit and inhaled deeply through his
nose.  He held Greg's manhood prisoner while his dancing tongue teased and
tortured it inside.  When he feared he might suffocate, he released his
prey and looked up.  Greg's brow was already beginning to perspire.  "How
we doin' third baseman?"

      Greg was panting.  "Awesome, President Turner."  He tugged at the
collar of Scott's shirt.  "But let's get you out of that sweatshirt."
Scott lifted his head back long enough for Greg to tear it off of him, and
then went back down.  Neither one would recall how long they went at this.
Scott alternately licked, sucked and a few times gently applied his teeth
to Greg's cock and balls.  Greg alternately rubbed Scott's shoulders,
reached down and played with his swollen nipples or held his head between
his hands and thrust his hips up and down off the chair.

      Finally, both men could feel it was rapidly approaching.  Greg's head
went back again.  "Fair warning, Scott!  You do what you want, but
I'm...I'm..." he whimpered once and then growled, "I'm gonna..."

      Scott gripped the object of his affections and just nodded head,
never breaking the bouncing rhythm.  Greg's body quivered uncontrollably
and he moaned unintelligible mutterings while he coated Scott's gullet and
then filled his mouth with a load even he didn't believe.  It started
seeping in drops out the corners of Scott's mouth and down on to his chin.
Once the flood had subsided, Scott relaxed his grip, but suckled a couple
more times.  Greg flinched and whispered breathlessly, "Easy, chief.  You
know what it feels like there after something like that."

      Scott looked up and smiled, his cheeks and chin glistening with his
saliva and Greg's seed.  He started to get up off the floor and met Greg's
face half way.  They kissed softly and sometimes playfully for several
minutes.  At one point, Scott's eyes opened half way and he glanced down.
He could see that Greg's whopper was already starting to rise again.  He
grabbed it.  "Very impressive."

      Greg licked Scott's ear.  "I'm just anticipating the tour you
promised.  The welcome was great, don't get me wrong.  But you promised me
a great view of the ceiling, and close-ups of both your desktop and your
carpeting.  I intend to hold you to that."

      After most of another hour, Greg had gotten what he'd been promised.
He saw the ceiling over Scott's shoulder, lying on the floor with Scott on
top of him.  He saw practically every square inch of the desktop as he was
bent over it, although his eyes weren't open all the time.  Finally, he
closely inspected several feet of carpeting on his hands and knees.

      On the front sidewalk, Scott offered Greg a drive back to the dorm.
Greg looked down and kicked at a piece of gravel with a shy grin on his
face.  "Well, thanks for the generous tour, Scott."

      "Hope it was worth the price of admission."

      Greg's eyes got wider and he beamed.  "You kidding me?  I just hope
we keep winning for the rest of the season!"  They both laughed, and Greg
said, "Look I gotta get going.  It's not far, and I could probably be back
there by the time you could drive; what with the one-way streets and the
stop signs and all that shit.  But, thanks again.  See you soon?"

      "I sure hope so.  G'night Greg."

      "Nite."



Author's Note: Many thanks to Kory and Scott for their help in the proof
reading and editing, to Peter for his help with a lot of the medical stuff,
and to all of you who were so thoughtful and generous in your reactions to
the guys' trip to Florida.  Please feel free to send any and all remarks to
scotty.13411@hotmail.com.