His chest puffed out with pride, Ali Omar Biixi watched through night vision binoculars as his fifteen-year-old son—Assad Ali Omar—navigated his craft with natural skill and flair through the inky black waters.

A tenth generation fisherman, Ali had started taking Assad with him on the family’s daily expeditions out into the Indian Ocean as soon as the boy could stand. As was their tradition, Assad would watch closely as the crew went about their business. A process repeated day in, day out, month after month. And as time went by, Assad was gradually introduced to the myriad facets involved in managing a working boat at sea.

Thus, in an age old institution practiced around the world, son was schooled by father in the skills required to earn a living and feed his future family.

Hailing as they did from the Galmudug region of Somalia, making that living was far more difficult than people realized. Yes, the advent of the Guardians had done much to quell the unrest caused by civil war and abject poverty, but their presence had also suppressed a source of revenue his family had been particularly skillful in: Piracy!

In the past, Ali had trained with his father too, learning how to farm the ocean and discovering the intricacies of their secret trade. Then, one day when Ali was judged mature enough, he was invited to accompany the men of his clan on a raid against a Greek registered tanker. It was during that time—when international maritime patrols were escalating—that Ali gained the nickname that would stay with him for life: The Sage!

As was the custom, most Somalian pirates liked to attack vulnerable ships during daylight if they came too close to their waters. Approaching from the rear, they would threaten the sailors on board with Russian made RPG’s and machine guns, and then force them to stop.

Once boarded, the vessels would be held to ransom, and huge amounts of cash demanded for the safe release of the crew, cargo, and of course the craft itself. Most of the time, their demands were met and everyone went their separate ways. Sometimes—and thankfully, such episodes were rare—things ended in bloodshed, and the wrath of the global community was brought to bear. It was because of those volatile incidents that the presence of so many foreign navies grew to become commonplace.

An unwelcome turn of events, for increased patrols not only led to a cut in revenue, but an expensive turnaround of weapons too. If a crew even suspected they were going to be boarded, it was essential they ditch their guns overboard in a hurry. A costly exercise. Yet it was far more preferable to the alternative. Under international law, any and all vessels involved in attacks on shipping were always confiscated. Consequently, on the rare occasions villagers were caught in the act of piracy, it meant the loss of their livelihoods, the ability to feed themselves, and certain destitution.

As a boy, Ali often wondered why the elders stubbornly stuck to the old ways. They were alarmingly hazardous, unprofitable, and hit and miss at best.

So, when he was out fishing with his father and a small crew one day, he’d waited for the opportunity to present itself, and voiced his dissatisfaction. Ali could remember the conversation now as if it were yesterday:

Appearing somewhat offended, his father had scolded, “Boy, what makes you think you’re so clever when we follow in the footsteps of generations of predecessors?”

Without pausing to gather his thoughts, Ali responded, “Father! If the old ways are flawed, does sticking rigidly to them suddenly make them right?”

Omar had been surprised by the depth of feeling in that reply and several of the deck hands also stopped to listen. Intrigued, Omar invited his son to express his thoughts more openly. “Go on, then. If you had the power, what would you do?”

“Father, because we are blessed and have been more productive than our brothers, we need to be careful not to waste that good fortune. We must spend money to make money. So many of the families continue to operate in the daytime! This is dangerous. They can not only be seen on radar, but by sight too. The warships have helicopters and drones. We can’t outrun them if we are too far from national waters, so we need to change . . .”

By now, the rest of the men had gathered round as well.

Ali continued, “. . . If I were leader, I would buy a very good computer. They can do all sorts of things, and provide much information about shipping and destinations. I would check to see what vessels are going where. What are they carrying? Where are their crews from? We would choose our targets more carefully. I’d send some of the clan north to the Gulf of Aden. They could see which private yachts came through and find out which way they were heading. The rest of us would be fishing and earning our bread while we waited. In this manner, we provide for our families until the right prey comes along, those who are vulnerable, for they would provide many riches for little risk.

“I would also buy better engines for our boats so we could extend our range. I’d purchase smaller, faster support craft too, ones that allowed us to sail closer when making our approach. That would fool radar surveillance and give us wider options than merely throwing our weapons overboard if pursued. And, with the money we save on guns and rockets, I’d equip our coxswains with the special goggles that allow them to see at night. Or even get radar of our own. Then my clan could work when no others dare, reducing the hazard of being caught even further.

“It would also be a good idea to time our attacks with other families and ensure they are working nearby. That way, if we are pursued, they will have nothing incriminating on board and can form an effective blockade. Remember, those other countries have to follow the law and will not be allowed to sink simple fishermen, even if they do accidentally hinder their pursuit.”

Ali had spoken quickly and in a breathless, embarrassed garble. It mattered not. The common sense in his words was evident for all to hear. On their return home later that day, Ali’s father got him to repeat his ideas in front of the elders.

That meeting resulted in Ali’s name being changed to The Sage forever. Adopting his methods, Ali’s village went on to achieve victory after victory. So accomplished were they, that even after the advent of the Guardians, they managed to remain the most active of the Somalian pirate clans. And all by simply by changing their strategy.

Instead of the larger oil tankers or container rigs—which were equipped with sophisticated radios and often carried armed contingents to repel boarders—they followed Ali’s advice and began travelling further afield to target smaller, private vessels instead.

The rest became tribal history.

So, it was with a great deal of pride that Ali Omar Biixi—aka The Sage—watched his son, Assad, completing his drills. Such exercises were now part of the new regime instituted by Ali when he took his own father’s place as head of the family.

Everyone who wanted to be part of the White Sails was required to complete at least a year’s probation. During that time, they were granted ever growing responsibilities . . . if they passed an increasingly difficult set of trials. Those trials involved gaining skills and experience in subjects ranging from seamanship, navigation and first aid, to reacting to authority figures, weapons handling and radio procedures under mock—yet realistic—conditions.

Repetition and familiarity became the key to success. Knowing how the others reacted under stress had helped each member operate much more efficiently as a team.

Ali ensured to train his son well. Taking Assad fishing from an early age exposed the natural sailor in him, and revealed his aptitude for piloting craft of all shapes and sizes. No matter what it was, Assad could drive it, steer it, and maneuver it through the tightest, most impossible gaps or slalom courses imaginable. It didn’t matter what cargo was on board, or if his boat was considerably slower than those about him. Assad could out-turn, out-run, and out-play just about everyone else by the time he was twelve.

Obviously, the Sage in Ali wanted to put those skills to use—full use—in the other side of the family business as quickly as possible. A providential strategy, for it was as Assad entered his teenage years that his additional talents began to manifest:

At first the clan thought it was sheer fluke! Every time they took young Assad along on a raid—even as an observer—they enjoyed rich rewards. Yes, nowadays they did restrict their activities, mostly to the hours between sundown and sunrise. And it was true their targets were softer than in previous years. However, their marks could still prove difficult, especially if the private yachts or motor launches involved possessed an alert crew, private security, or the latest Yeung Tec GPS radar alarm technology.

All that became inconsequential once Assad began accompanying them. Somehow, they would always manage to avoid detection by the authorities; get nearer to their objective before rousing suspicion; remain unmolested whilst picking their victims clean; escape with an ease never before witnessed.

A superstitious lot, the sailors came to look on him as a lucky charm.

Until the incident—only a year ago—when they realized there was more to young Assad than met the eye:

The White sails had completed another hassle-free foray against a private yacht owned by a wealthy banker sailing from Egypt toward the Maldives, with his wife and two young daughters on board. Unfortunately, his men had stayed far longer than intended due to the overabundance of possessions on board. The woman was something of a hoarder, and her jewelry selection alone had taken them over half an hour to sort through and bag. Making their eventual escape as the distant horizon began to lighten, they developed engine trouble while still several miles outside their own territorial waters.

Regrettably for them, an experienced and usually competent crewmember—Bahdoon—had failed to render their victim’s ship-to-shore radio fully inoperative. A fact they were unaware of until forty-five minutes after their departure. That’s when they found themselves bobbing along at the mercy of costal currents and in ever brightening daylight, with a Canadian Warship bearing down on them.

Sitting ducks!

Ali had been forced to ditch thousands of dollars worth of weapons and contraband over the side in an effort to avoid arrest.

If only he’d known, he needn’t have bothered.

The first time they knew something was a little off, was when they gathered on deck in anticipation of the frigate pulling alongside to disgorge its boarding party of heavily armed commandos. Only it didn’t!

Instead, Ali watched, openmouthed, as the sleek grey hull of the warship steamed past in a hurry, seemingly intent on another target entirely. Then the helicopter had been launched. Flying backward and forward, it too appeared focused on another purpose, actually swooping directly over them twice!

After his crew had managed to force their stomachs back down their throats, Ali set his engineer—Rashid—to repairing the engine while everyone else settled in to watch the entertainment.

Without the weight of impending arrest hanging over them, they soon set things right and got underway, whooping with delight and relief. Even so, Ali kept his attention fixed on the ship and its encircling helicopter until they were mere dots in the distance.

Relaxing at last, he only then realized Assad had been sitting quietly at the prow—head bent, staring down at the waves—during the entire episode. When Ali went to check on him, he was horrified to discover his son’s pupils had expanded to fill the whole of his eye sockets. Eye sockets that exuded a milky mist that filtered down onto the water in the manner of a seaborne fog.

Ali felt as if he was gazing into another dimension entirely.

His father’s presence seemed to bring Assad out of a trance. Shaking his head, he gulped down air, blinked, and a natural cast returned to his haunted visage. As it did so, a distinctive shimmer ran along the boat from stem to stern. So pronounced was that anomaly, everyone noticed it.

Startled, Ali blurted out, “By the spirits, what was that?”

Releasing his breath, Assad admitted, “It was me, Father. But don’t worry; it’s something I’ve been able to do for a while now.”

Confused, Ali sought further clarification. “What do you mean? What have you been able to do for a while?”

“Hide us.”

“Hide us? My son, you’re just a boy. How could you possibly do that?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Assad quietly replied, “I don’t know, exactly. All I can say is, when I concentrate, we remain veiled from sight. And I suspect from their radar too.”

Sure enough, when Ali tested that theory with several of their own boats during the days that followed, they discovered Assad’s assertions were true. Assad would take various vessels out to sea and, at a signal from his father, activate his ability. No matter what craft he was aboard, or how big, it would disappear from radar like a nonexistent wraith.

They brought him closer to shore and asked him to repeat his trick, this time having a clear line of sight. As soon as Assad exerted himself, a shimmering miasma rippled across the surface of the sea, very similar in appearance to the cold water mirages experienced sailors knew so well. Whatever boat the boy was piloting at the time simply folded out of view, blending into the haze as if it didn’t exist.

Needless to say, Assad’s nickname came to reflect his ability: Stealth!

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

And now, as Stealth completed his final tests, Ali’s heart swelled with pride. The boy was superbly talented, both in the ways of the sea and spirits. His graduation to Sheet signified his full entrance, as a man, into the White Sails. An apt name for their pirate clan, as it signified their amazing record of making clean getaways.

Assad brought the skiff back to shore where the elders waited, his silent approach a testimony to his skill and maturity. Leaping lightly from the prow, he strode confidently up to his father to receive the mark of a full member.

Removing the knife from the fire, Ali carved their sigil into his son’s forearm, gratified to note how still Assad remained under the scorching kiss of the blade.

One by one, the elders approached to offer their congratulations.

Finally, his father said, “Well done, Stealth. Now you are truly one of us. Soon, we will mark your graduation with a baptism of fire. But for tonight, relax and enjoy the celebrations.”

*

Guardian Institute of Scientific Research (Former site of Headquarters on Earth)

Pacific Ocean – February 10, 2043

A fanfare announced the final stage of the proceedings. None of it really registered on the two young people observing events from the seclusion of the grand upper balcony lining the circumference of the state room.

Joshua Drake reached down to his side, absentmindedly, to scratch behind an ear that wasn’t there. His actions didn’t go unnoticed. Becky Selleck teased, “Missing someone?”

A crooked smile lifted the corner of Joshua’s mouth, but his vacant gaze didn’t leave the joint Graduation Ceremony taking place below. “It certainly looks like it, eh? I don’t realize how much I do it.”

“He’d let you fuss him all day long if you were stupid enough. You do know he’s subliminally compelling you?”

“Of course! All felines do. Just because String is as big as a house doesn’t alter his nature. He’s telepathic. He’s a cat. And he loves being petted.”

Becky giggled at the mere mention of the huge predator’s name. When he was a cub, String’s mother used to regularly bring him—along with his monstrous brothers and sisters— to meet the tiny humans who had befriended her.

Although the size of a snack to them, none of the leonines ever viewed the children as a tasty morsel. Instead, they had been fascinated by the toys Becky and Joshua brought for them to play with.

In particular, String was the cub most mesmerized by the rope Joshua always seemed to carry wherever he went. Within seconds of it being offered, he would pounce on it. Then, in a display of frenzied feline ferociousness—and copious amounts of frizzy-haired hissing and spitting—he would claw the cord to shreds. Having accomplished this arduous, but essential task, String would then writhe on his back like an upended squirrel, reveling in the ecstasy of vanquishing his imaginary foe.

The two had been close from the start, sharing a rapport that went beyond the norm. It always made Joshua laugh, the way the giant cub would suddenly turn to stone the moment his fingers delved into the thick fur behind his ear tufts. Head frozen to one side, String would begin radiating titanic waves of pleasure. If Joshua dared stop, String would whine and butt his head against the boy, knocking Joshua over while demanding he continue his ministrations with chirruping protests and repeated licks from a rough black tongue.

Needless to say, one of the most deadly hunters on Kalliste was doomed to a name denoting novelty for the rest of his life.

As String grew larger, Joshua started playing telepathic hide-and-seek games with him. This not only bonded them together at a subconscious level, but also had the amazing side effect of augmenting the animal’s natural psychic capacity. Alarmingly so!

The fact had been noted, and currently, studies were being conducted as to how far those capabilities might be enhanced. It presented a great opportunity. With the colonization program moving forward apace, settlers would need time to adjust to life in an initially strange and hostile environment. And, because of the voracious nature of many of the larger species, they would be dependent upon some form of “guard dog” to protect them. As the Verans were now adapting to the presence of humans—and had shown sufficient intelligence to realize people were not to be classed as prey—it looked as if the near invincible creatures might be just the thing to fulfill that role.

At over five years of age, String was approaching adolescence. Already six feet tall at the shoulder, he was only a shadow of the brute he would one day become. So, it made it all the more amusing when Joshua projected an image into Becky’s mind of the powerful beast lying on his back, kicking all four legs in the air in wanton abandon, as he clawed yet another medicine ball from the gymnasium into leathery strips.

Joshua murmured, “He doesn’t like it when I’m gone. I can taste his anxiety.”

Becky was surprised. “What? You can sense him from here?”

For the first time, Joshua turned to look at her. Shrugging, he replied, “Like I said. He doesn’t like it when we’re apart . . . Even when I project feelings of comfort and reassurance.”

She didn’t challenge his assertions.

The children had learned a long time ago how different they were from each other. For Joshua, his empathic abilities were unmatched . . . apart, perhaps, from their favorite aunt and uncles. Somehow, he was able to absorb and influence the emotions of individuals across vast distances. They were beginning to suspect his dexterity may even stretch to manipulating the probability lattices, as Joshua’s precognitive function was also massively developed. He seemed able to feel the right course that needed to be taken to achieve the most beneficial results. As such, the Overlord had personally been training him over the past year in some very advanced techniques to enhance his natural flair for a very rare gift.

Becky had received similar attention herself. Victoria was widely regarded as having the most finely attuned ultrasenses amongst the Guardians and had been instructing Becky in some astounding long-range, hyper-scanning and hailing procedures that were already way beyond what most of the Lords could achieve.

Suddenly, Becky laughed out loud.

Joshua stepped back from the railing. “What?”

She pointed to the class of 2043. The new graduates, now qualified as Protectors after five years of training led the way. Marching smartly along in their distinguishing black uniforms, they were closely followed by the class of 2041. The more senior group had completed their probation and were here today to be confirmed as fully fledged Guardians.

Reverting to telepathy, Becky raised a profound thought: That will be us in the not too far distant future. It’s strange to think we’re already more accomplished than most people here. Yet, for all our differences, we still need to complete the curriculum that will raise our physical and psychological competence sufficiently to begin closing the gap on our outlandish supernatural freakiness. How do you think we’ll fit in?

Joshua pulled a face, the slant of his features already revealing a hint of the man he would one day become: Do you know, I hadn’t really thought about that. I know a few noses will be put out of joint because of our ages. Up until now, the youngest candidates to enter the Academy have been sixteen. So, just imagine the joy the ‘grown-ups’ will feel at having us, a couple of snot-nose kids pulling at their skirts for five years. Especially as some of them think were too precocious for own good.

Becky grunted: Ha! We’ve already had a little taste of that on the Pre-Course internship! Thank God it’s broken down into modules over the year so we can get a break.

Joshua brightened: Breaks in which I get to see String . . . Hey! Do you think they’ll let me take him up to the Academy?

Casting her eyes heavenward, Becky replied: Seriously? God . . . you are! Josh, if you want to improve your chances from nil to sure, when hell freezes over, I think you’d better start bribing the instructors now, don’t you?

Sighing, Joshua noticed the drill display had just come to an end. “You’re probably right!” he grumbled out loud. “Did you want to come with me and congratulate Robin? He was at the same place they rescued you from, wasn’t he?”

Becky’s aura softened to a coral hue. “Yes he was. Good idea, let’s go and mingle.”

*

Jose Calderon couldn’t believe he’d actually done it.

After pinching himself until it hurt, he held out his arms and drank in the symbol of his new office, a freshly added bronze ring at the end of each sleeve. Swaggering with well deserved pride, his face creased in a grin that added a gentle innocence to his features that had been sorely lacking when he was younger.

A blunt and highly compulsive individual with a powerful self-healing faculty, Jose had originally been a career hood, carving out a little empire for himself in Houston, Texas. Growing up alone and always having to look out for himself, he became secretive, insular and reclusive, with a predisposition to violence. After a number of successful hits on him had mysteriously failed, he was subsequently exposed as a subject possessing extrasensory capabilities to the authorities.

The CIA later tracked him down and incarcerated him within the Angel Project, an ultra-secure holding facility beneath Langley. Fortunately for him, he was one of a number of people held there illegally, and had been rescued by the Guardians in a blaze of bright lights and publicity. That incident changed his life.

Following his rehabilitation, the Guardian facilitators had gone on to treat him with respect, entrusting him with ever more responsibility as the months passed. He hadn’t let them down. For the first time ever, he felt as if he truly belonged somewhere. And it showed.

Here he was, just over seven years later, clutching his authorization documents to his first posting. Inquisitor Wing: Section 1—South Americas Sector. He was a Guardian cop, with compulsive and healing abilities currently assessed at Grand Master level. And to top it all, it was thought the additional self-rejuvenating aspect gracing his psi-well was going to be even stronger by the time his maturation had run its course.

The irony of the turnabout his fortunes had undergone still hadn’t sunk in and made him somewhat reflective even now. His appointment meant he would be stationed at the underground Zone facility in the Mato Grosso do Sul district of Brazil. That would please his new girlfriend immensely, as her company had recently relocated her to Rio de Janeiro. Being so close would mean they could take their time getting to know one another properly.

The icing on the cake as far as Jose was concerned!

One of his classmates, Bob ‘Johnnie’ Walker caught his attention over on the other side of the hall: Hey, Big Guy! Are you coming or what? If we don’t get to the photo lines fast enough, we’ll be late for the gala. All the best seats will be taken.

Yeah, Johnnie, I know. I’m on my way.

It was as Jose steamrollered his way through the mob that he spotted someone he knew from the Langley incident. He stopped dead in his tracks. It can’t be!

An evil plot hatched in his mind.

Pushing his way through the crowd, Jose came up behind his quarry. His victim was chatting to an older, attractive blonde-haired Protector. Jose grinned at her and winked as he covered his target’s eyes with his palms. In a false gangster voice, he snarled, “Stickemup, fuck-wit! Guess who?”

Robin Johns went completely still.

Despite the huge paws clamped about his head, he still managed to assume a thoughtful posture. Tapping his chin with his forefinger, he replied, “Hang on a minute, no clues now! No clues . . . So, let me see! Smooth girly hands with a very weak grip. That indicates either a complete weakling or someone with a penchant for self-abuse. Or—and this is the most likely option—both!

“The casual use of vulgarity highlights my aggressor has an exceedingly low IQ, equal to that of a three-week-old turd! The stench of body odor combined with the smell of vomit tells me that someone is so ugly, even the sight of their own reflection causes a reflex hurl. They also dare to put their grubby mitts all over my handsome face. Goodness only knows what disgusting bodily orifices those broken nails and pallid fingers have been scratching or delving into . . .? Though the aroma is quite distinctive. Mmmh, only one person I can think of has somehow managed to wheedle his way through Guardian training with such appallingly low standards. Probably by playing on the mental disability quotient modern-day employers are forced to adhere to. . .”

Flinging his arms wide, Robin concluded, “Did you manage to dress yourself today, Jose? Or did mummy do it for you, diapers and all?”

Jose spun Robin around to face him and engulfed him in a huge bear hug. “How’re you doing, you pig-ugly retard? Long time, no see!”

“Oh you know, overcoming further huge hurdles on the long road to recovery,” Robin gestured toward his companion, “and saving lives with my classmate here.”

“Jesus, I heard about that! Lucky you guys were there then by all accounts.”

Robin flexed his broad shoulders into a Charles Atlas pose, and then relaxed. “Yes . . . and no. I throw up a pretty mean shield, but it was Emm’s who really saved the day with her knack for teleportation. They’d have been dead by the time I’d jogged my manly way to them, even with the Moon’s gravity being what it is.”

Jose seized his opening. “By God, you’re right! Get out of the way, you useless fucking moron, so I can speak to a real hero.”

Roughly manhandling Robin aside, Jose began advancing on the hapless woman.

She seemed appalled, until both men paused to embrace each other for a second time. A further stream of exchanged vulgarities followed. Then they burst out laughing.

Relaxing a little, she snorted, “Bloody children!”

Their manner clearly betrayed the fact that such insults were a normal means of communicating their deep affection for each other.

Suddenly, Robin had the decency to look embarrassed. Turning to his fellow Protector, he announced, “Where are my manners? Emma, this is Gua . . . Guard . . . It’s no use, the title doesn’t fit him. This is Jose Calderon. Sorry about him, he’s a twat that isn’t getting used often enough—by men or women—or any form of mutated beast known to mankind. One time criminal thug and hit-man, now—believe it or not—destined to blaze a trail of self destruction within the Inquisitor ranks! God help us. . .

“. . . Twat! This is Protector Emma Boucher. She’s far too nice a lady for you to even look at. So, just dribble and go take your club and play with the sand on the beach. About two miles out from the low tide mark should do it. Oh, and don’t bother holding your breath. Nobody cares.”

The bluntness of the two men’s humor took quite a few bystanders by surprise—Emma included. So much so, her jaw dropped open.

Using his finger to lift her chin, Jose ignored the jibe and said, “Hi, Emma. It’s nice to meet a real hero who doesn’t still wet the bed at night.”

“Nice to mee—”

“I’ve told you, dickhead!” Robin shot back, “I only ever do that when we’re in bunk beds and you’re on the bottom.”

Adopting a theatrical pose, Robin added “I honestly don’t know how my body can hold that much liquid! It’s like I’m blessed with an additional ability.”

Jose pushed Robin even farther out of the way, “Can you hear an annoying, irritating buzz? Anyway! It is nice to meet you Emma, even if your choice in unworthy charitable causes leaves much to be desired.”

Struggling to keep a straight face, she replied, “Good to meet you at last! He’s always going on about you, you know.”

Without missing a beat, Jose responded, “All bad, I’m sure. We’re getting engaged next month. The wedding’s due as soon as I get him heavily insured. Needless to say, he’ll suffer a needless, painful accident soon after. Twice—just to make sure! I’ll mourn his heartrending loss for a healthy period of about five minutes. . .” He paused to leer directly at her. “Then we can run off together to Vegas. Sound good?”

Emma burst out laughing. Fortunately, she was spared further displays of testosterone-laced posturing when a mental fist bludgeoned its way into Jose’s psyche:

Johnnie Walker was back: Hey, big man, haul ass! People are beginning to gripe about me saving you a spot in line. You’ll lose your place entirely if you don’t shift it!

Genuinely sorry he had to leave; Jose started jostling his way back through the press. “Apologies, guys, you’ll have to enjoy the celebrations without me. Well done, by the way! I’m late for the class photographs. I promised Angelika I’d get her a few portraits shots for her bedside cabinet.”

He wiggled his eyebrows outrageously as he projected a lurid mental image of himself naked, in a typical male model catalogue pose.

Emma choked on her punch.

Though the distance between them grew by the second, Robin was on him like a rash. He shouted, “Angelika? Who’s Angelika? Surely you can’t be alluding to someone with an actual pulse?”

Nonchalantly, Jose replied, “Oh, a great girl I met on a night out in Rio a few months back.”

Jose was getting a bit far away, so Robin reverted to mental speech: Are you sure she’s a woman? Was it dark? I’ve heard the transvestites from that part of the world are particularly alluring.

Well, you’d know!

Is she blind?

Boring.

Is she retarded?

Prick!

Is she a moose? She is, isn’t she? A certified double bagger!

Raising a middle finger, so the young upstart could clearly see it across the throng, Jose projected: Twist on this, spindle dick. . .

. . . No, cancel my last thought. You’d definitely get too much of a kick out of that.

Meeting up with his fellow graduates, Jose cut off any further conversation with his long-lost pal. Even so, he couldn’t help but smile. It was really nice to see him again. He’s an entirely new kid now that his head’s sorted out. The shrinks did an amazing job on him.

Jose’s grin got bigger as an image of his girlfriend’s voluptuous body sprang to mind. I think I’ll have to introduce him to Angelika. When he sees what she looks like for real, he’ll be sooo pissed. I’ll be able to wind him up with it for years!