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THE ADVENTURES OF BERT AND BERNECE
by Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
In mid-town, the sun's brazen harshness was reinforced, as
it glared from a glass and ivory colored office building towering
towards the heavens, stiff and erect in stature; symbolism oozed
from its solar-heated shaft, as an unnoticed conversation unfolded
ensconced near the tip of this man-made erection of glass and steel.
"Stop squirming. You'll die for what you did," Bert threatened.
"You'll never get away with this," I lied. "There are others, who
know I came here for you."
"You stole my woman; you're gonna pay," Bert accused.
"What woman? I don't have a woman -- not me. I'm to enter seminary
next month. I'm celibate," I babbled.
"Sell a bit! What the hell ... a polite way to say pimp or
whoremaster?" he implicated. His eyes were bulging -- matching the
bulge in my genes.
The situation couldn't get worse.
On the roof of his office building, near the ledge, my hands bound --
there was little hope. Bert had gone over the edge and wanted to see
me there -- too.
"I can help get your woman back." I entreated.
"Ha. You took her from me!" he inculpated.
"Bert, I couldn't take her from you. I'm your friend. I could never
harm you. It'd be against my vows," I acquiesced.
"To your death," he sentenced.
"But, what of your lover...," I proffered.
"What?"
"Your *LOVER*! I arranged those meetings. It was ME! You, an
attorney," I sighed, and gushed on, "I brought you two together.
I responded to your personal ad. Yes, it was ME, who sent all those
love letters you answered. There never was a woman. I dressed in drag
to meet -- you. I'm your inamorato," I gushed imploringly.
"Darling! Do write again, but be brief," lawyer-like, he taunted,
while holding me in his arms and nearer the edge, a sardonic smile
etched his lips.
I thought, "_He's smiling. He wants me. We'll live happily ever
after, no children, but no dirty diapers; more time for us._"
The situation got worse.
I went over the edge -- literally!
Copyright 1993 Francis U. Kaltenbaugh
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Francis is one of those kinds of authors. I'm still trying to figure his/
her political persuasions. One never knows does one. Writing for escapisim
is a way of life, and sharing is a reward in itself, reports Francis.
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