A Rash Decision
The Odds were last seen headed east with a grim determination on their faces. Jack had been overheard saying something to do with seeing a woman about a rash.
He and Bill had been off to a party 2 days ago. An off-the-cuff invite on the hillside from one of the spectators. Dodgy lot them; never could understand how someone could go to the hill and not fly. As it turned out, they were met at the door by a rather long haired individual, holding a cactus pot-plant in one hand, who immediately furnished them with a tranparent drink with a white frothy head. Neither of them remember much after that.
Since then he had started to develop an itch, which he suspected was from a hanglider pilot, and this was who he was off to thank. Visions had popped into head and then melted as the mist before the sun when he probed for details. A redheaded woman seemed to be in all of them. Laughing. Taunting. He remembered the taught feeling in his groin, like when he was a teenager, full of the joys of spring. And sprung he had (if his visions served him correctly).
As it turned out, when he arrived at the abode of the flamehead there was a gathering underway. Jack, spurred on by the 8 pints of Strongbow Super he had consumed just 2 hours earlier, thought this was just the venue to vent his spleen over the injustices of fraternation with those of lower morals than himself. Of course, it was always OK for him to lower his standards but he deplored the idea of his standards being lowered for him - especially by a hanglider pilot. It has to be said that till now he had never entertained the idea of trying hangliding but then why should he. As far as he was concerned hangliding was for those who were too scared to look at the passing landscape in detail.
Still, at least they weren't golfers
He burst in through the front door and headed toward the noise coming from the lounge. Sighting the redhead, he bellowed, "Damn you, cheap woman, look what you have given me!" And without further ado, and inspite of the little voice crying "Nooooooooo" in his head, he dropped his draws... "Look at the mess you've made! How many other men have you given this horrid itch to?!" he cried.
The crowd fell silent. All eyes swiveled from his to the region he was so angrily pointing to. There was a murmur. A familiar recognition. Surely they didn't all have it? Maybe it was a conspiracy. The murmur gathered momentum, mutating like a snowball growing as it heads down the hill, towards town. Finally, it erupted into shrieks of laughter that pierced the haze of bravery. Something wasn't quite right with this audience. As he started to delve into the possibilities of what it could be the redhead began to speak.
"Kind Sir," she exaggerated "the rash of which you so ambivalently speak is not of the nature I feel you are implying. You see, the last time we saw you we were working on a new hanglider harness and you valiantly offered to test it. Unfortunately, as it transpired, one of the girls had, for lack of other padding, included some roofing insulation which is not known for its kindness to the human epidermis. The misfortune of you volunteering as 'test pilot' was further exacerbated buy the fact that you insisted that all restrictive clothing be dispensed with. So you see, it was not I that brought on the rash in the manner you so indignantly insist, but rather your determination to boldly go where no thinking man would ever want to..."
And with that the house erupted with shrieks of laughter. As Jack fled, clawing his way past Bill in a effort to escape, he could see the flashes of cameras. This was something he would have to get over, probably over a life time, if the photos lasted that long.