I am not an electrician.  I am a magician who performs illusions on himself.  I find it’s best to mask my flaws and assign responsibility for any bad tidings that come my way to others, always others.  I refuse to believe that I could ever be wrong.  After all, who is the most important person in the world?  Me.  Who is the smartest person in the world?  Me.  Who’s the best-looking?  Me.  Therefore, I was horrified recently to learn that a house that I had performed minor electrical work in had burned down three hours after I’d left.  I knew I had caused the fire because my incandescent drop light had fallen into the dude’s blown attic insulation for like thirty minutes, and was smoldering like hell when I found it.  Hey, I did the best I could to put it out.

     Anyway, first I heard of it was on a local TV news station’s website.  The media clip I ran showed the guy (he was an idiot), wrapped in a sheet shivering while his two-story abode blazed majestically in the background.  I kind of felt sorry for the dude.  Then he started blaming Travis Heights (that’s me), by name.  You motherfucker, I thought.  Let’s just see if I ever work for you again.

     A quick check of the time revealed I could still get to his bank before it closed to cash his soon-to-be-worthless check.  On the way there I thumbed my cell phone once, rapidly ringing number one on my speed-dial, Alessandra Bristow Montgomery, PLLC, my attorney.  Her assistant put me right through.

     “Hi, Travis,” she purred.  My cock was already starting to get hard. 

     “ABM, I’ve got trouble.”  I arched my back and rearranged myself.  That only made it worse.  I was going to have to pull over to avoid injury.  “I burned some guy’s house down.”

     “C’mon, why’d you do a thing like that?”  Her southern-accented voice was so light and beautiful.  I definitely had to pull over now.

     “Well I didn’t mean to do it, Alessandra, let me just tell you that.  And it wasn’t an electrical fire.”  I was already working on my defense.

     “I’ll make some calls right now.” she promised.  Then, a little slower (and a lot lower): “Hey, Travis, I’ve got a hot little pussy that’s aching to be licked.  Get your big dick over here.”

     Well, I knew that was coming.  I could not believe how naughty this woman could be.  Before fifteen minutes had passed in our first meeting two years previous (I’d gotten busted for weed again), we were fucking like mad on and around her stately burgandy desk, getting the legal documents all wet.  That animal lust we felt had not diminished a bit since then. 

     “Forty-five minutes, keep your panties on.”  She knew I liked to take them off with my teeth.  Once I actually took them off with my dick.  That was probably the most erotic night of my life.  I was thinking, Free legal services, free legal services, when I came.  Each and every time.

     I didn’t tell her that, though.

     “Bye,” she whispered innocently.  I so badly wanted to be there with her, but I also needed that chump’s five bills, and Alessandra was an expensive girl.  Bank before booty was a bedrock principle of our relationship.  That, and no ejaculation on the face.   But a photographer friend of mine had made some digital “adjustments” to a glamour-shot image of her, and that was good enough for me.

     “Bye, sweet lips,” I whispered back.  I’m the sensitive type.  I wipe that photo down after every use.

     The bank, as expected, was crowded.  It was Friday, after all, and that’s when the drone workers of the world get paid.  I tried to avoid visits on that day, since good hygiene is very important to me.  But I had no choice.  I had to mix with the masses.  I would have to take two showers later to get rid of the smell.

     Bootsy Collins was in the Nak as I wheeled my F-250 briskly into the handicapped parking spot nearest the door.  The blue-haired old lady who tried to steal the space from me was easily intimidated by my truck’s raised bumper and massive grill.  I made sure that’s all she could see.  She backed off pretty quick.

     Two Tic-Tacs later I was ready for some financial action.  I closed my door gently (the component speakers in them cost $1100 a set), and strode confidently to the oak and glass door, just a few steps away.  It swung outward easily, perfectly balanced on its hinges.  I figured the installer must have been stoned, since he had done such a good job.

     I was actually pretty stoned myself, this fact being attributable to several company policies I had put into effect upon forming my one-man electrical outfit.  Rule one at Travis Heights Electric was: smoke plenty of good weed.  Rule two, closely related, was: smoke plenty of good weed often.

    Thus it was no surprise that the aroma of the hydroponic pot I’d been enjoying on my drive preceding preceded me as I entered.  I encountered several pairs of raised eyebrows from my motley cohabitants of the faux velvet rope-lined maze, which led fitfully to the single working teller’s position behind the counter.  At least I don’t have dirt under my fingernails, I thought, you sober bastards.

     The joy-filled tones of the Jackson 5’s “Rockin’ Robin” pierced the air.  My phone was ringing. 

     No caller information for this sweet musical interruption was displayed on my two-hundred-fifty-six thousand million color 1.5″ LCD screen.  Another fucking bill collector.  Jesus Fucking Christ.

     “Hello!” I answered cheerfully.  I needed the entertainment.  I didn’t identify myself; they knew who the hell I was.

     I was approaching the front of the line swiftly, almost at a trot.  Fortunately for me, six illegals ahead were denied their cash because none had any form of ID that wasn’t printed in Guatemalen, or whatever the fuck they babble down there.  No wonder they cashed their checks in bars, got drunk, and stabbed each other to death every weekend   God Bless the wetback.

     “We’re calling Travis Heights about a personal business matter.  Is he available?”  It was a woman.  Around forty-five, by the sound of her voice.  Married, pale white, probably an Adventist, clearly morbidly obese.

     “So, how long have you been jacking off dogs?” I asked her.  I was second in line now.  For some reason, people started looking at me again.  Was my shirt tucked in properly?

     “Sir, we won’t stop calling you, and if-“

     “I bet you jack off your German Sheppard into your daughter’s cereal bowl.  You need help,” I advised her.

     It was my turn to collect some change.  I could tell the teller wanted to provide me with excellent customer service by the bored, beaten look in her eyes.  “Gotta go, you shit-eating cunt,”  I hung up.  “Hi, doll,” I greeted the banker.  She looked pretty good for a fat chick.

     I handed over the smoky-smelling check and my driver’s license.  “That was my mom,” I told her.  “She’s a little nervous about grandma’s upcoming bris.”

     There was to be no smalltalk coaxed from this buxom plumper.  She avoided my gaze entirely as my eyes greedily drank in the lushness of her bountiful cleavage.  Her feigned coldness was a form of self-protection, I surmised, because she didn’t trust her lusty passions in the presence of such a charming mysterious rogue as myself.  Women and their remarkable self-control will never cease to amaze me.

     The wait was interminible.  I began to suspect something was amiss when the bank’s manager and security guard suddenly flanked the big-titted broad, scowling at me.  I began to experience Restless Leg Syndrome.

     “This note has been cancelled by the issuer, and we have been advised to notify the police if anyone attempts to cash it.”  I took an immediate disliking to this smarmy “I buy my suits at Men’s Discount Wearhouse” sonofabitch. 

     “Is that so?” I asked, size 13 steel-toed hikers already pointing towards the door.  “There must be some misunderstanding.  I’ll wait while you check.”

     “Please do so with our security guard while I call.”  I sized up the rentacop.  I figured I could take him, but I’d have to wrestle away his gun and shoot him in the head with it.  If there is only one choice it is not a choice but an imperative.

     “Nice doing business with your fine establishment, sir,” I was loping towards the beckoning exit, sans simoleons.  “Call me if you need a good electrician at an affordable price!”