Giantess Stories: Formula Version Dot One

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Formula Version Dot One

Formula: Version Dot One

Brian Weller checked his mailbox and got what he expected: a mailbox filled with

various letters and financial aid documents from numerous colleges he had

applied to. The financial aid was the hardest of all -- he didn't qualify for

disadvantage student aid because his family made too much money, but his family

couldn't afford to completely self-fund his education due to the high cost of

going to a good school. His father was a plant supervisor at a local furniture

plant, and his mother was a school principal at a local middle school. His dad

said that for now, he could afford up to the first $5,000 of the college costs

and $250 of his book expenses, plus the promise of some secret extra pocket

money when his mother wasn't looking.

Brian took his daily bundle up to his room and began the regular afternoon

ritual of sifting through the mail. Sigh. Rejection letter. Rejection Letter.

'SAT scores do not meet our admission minimum standards, signed stuffy Ivy

League University.' Rejection Letter. Rejection Letter. Rejection Letter. You've

been accepted to our fall classes effective September 3,2001. Rejection Letter.

Rejection Letter. What???!!!

Quick dig through wastebasket follows.

Brian quickly reads through it, then begins to go absolutely wild. About ten

minutes later, he calms down and continues to go through the rest of their

information packet. What's even nicer is that he qualifies for a full

scholarship his first year, with continuing financial aid conditional on

maintaining a nominal grade point average. He spends the remainder of the

afternoon doing rough planning on what he needs to do to be able to get to

University City, LA.

He then turns on his computer and turns on the aging Pentium 233 to go on the

Internet to check his email and to check the online classifieds. He finds a

message from the automated search engine that it has found a used PC that meets

all of his specifications. He looks at it and reads the information therein:

"Must sell: Pentium III 733. 256 Mb RAM. 20 Gb hard disk. Windows 98. 17 inch

monitor, with 8x CD burner. In excellent condition. Selling all for $600. Email

at [email protected]"

Brian opened his desk drawer and searched through the contents until he pulled

out his quarry: "First National Bank Savings Account passbook: Minor account

holder Brian Weller." Brian quickly opened it to the first page to find his most

recent account balance. He had been setting some money aside every two weeks for

the past four years, splitting each paycheck among helping his family with some

of his living expenses (his dad said it would teach him financial responsibility

by simulating having real-world living expenses, such as 'rent' for staying in

his room), and over time, it amounted to a nice chunk of change: $4321.69.

"Hey Dad! Come here for a minute. I need to borrow the use of your credit card."

Brian yelled.

After a few minutes, the heavy footsteps of his father were heard coming into

the room. A slightly heavyset but otherwise healthy middle aged man with graying

red hair entered the room.

"What's up, son?" He inquired.

"Found me a computer to go to school with. I'd like to buy it." Brian replied.

The older man peered forward, put on his glasses and read the information.

"That's a pretty low price for a system like that. What's wrong with it?" He

implied with some suspicion.

"Dad! Just because they want to sell it at a cheap price doesn't mean there's

something wrong with it." Brian defended.

"Well, they gotta have some reason for wanting to dump it..." the father

started..

"Dad..."

"OK OK... I meant, sell it. Are you sure that's the one you want," the older man

confirmed.

"Yeah. I looked on the web, and new systems want at least five or six hundred

more for a system like that," Brian replied.

"OK. Let those people know we're interested and I'll do it for you, son. It's

your money," his father relented.

"Thanks, Dad." Brian responded.

"By the way, son, congratulations. I knew you'd find a school worthy of your

talent. Just don't come home with any genetically engineered food, or furless

cats, or stuff like that..." the older man joked.

"Dad...." Brian moaned.

"Just kidding, son. I'm very proud of you." the older man hugged the boy, gave

him a noogie across the scalp and ambled off.

A few days, and a few conversations later, the two men found themselves in a

very upscale neighborhood on the northside of town, the older man driving a 95

Mercedes C280.

"Pretty nice neighborhood. I guess these people can afford to dump Pentium III's

at below their market value," the older man punned.

"Dad...." Brian droned.

"OK OK... you just keep an eye out for the right..." the older man instructed

"There it is. 825 Graymalkin Lane!" Brian pointed.

The older man parked the Mercedes on the side of the street. The two men walked

up to a red and white Victorian style wood frame house with a covered porch,

with a path of large flat stones leading up to the front porch. The area was

nicely landscaped around the house, with a variety of colorful plants tastefully

dressing up the surrounding property. Brian pushed the backlit button for the

doorbell, and had to wait only a few minutes before an attractive, light-skinned

black woman appeared at the door.

"Hi, can I help you gentlemen?" she asked politely.

"We're here about the computer for sale," Brian replied.

"Oh! OK, come right in," she offered, holding the door for Brian and his father

to enter.

They stepped through a nicely decorated foyer area with a small dining table

that was already set for dinner. Curiously enough, at one end of the table was a

much smaller replica of the same table, complete with a small copy of the

chairs, it too having a miniature plate and settings, looking very much like the

conventionally sized settings at that end of the table.

In a china cabinet, Brian also saw pictures of both the young woman and what he

assumed to be her husband. Oddly enough, there were no pictures of the two of

them in the same photo, but since it was none of his business, he said nothing

about his observation. The two men followed the woman into the next room, and

then up an ornately carved and finished wooden spiral staircase. After walking

past a balcony, they entered a very nicely furnished bedroom. There was again

pictures of both the same young man and the woman, but again, no pictures of

them together. At one corner of the room was a locked cabinet. When the young

woman unlocked it, it revealed the purpose of their visit: a very well

maintained midtower PC system.

"I recently ordered a newer PC system, and I really didn't need more than one at

a time in the same house, and because I really wanted the space available, I

wanted to sell this one quicklly,"she explained.

Brian nodded and sat in the comfortable early Victorian style cushioned chair

and pushed the power button for the system. After booting to a Windows 98

desktop, he ran various programs to test its functionality. The system

information revealed it had been registered to a Billy somebody, and

surprisingly enough, he found a recent copy of a sophisticated biochemistry

analysis program.

"Oh cool! This is interesting..." Brian commented.

"What's interesting, " the woman pressed nervously, suddenly appearing unsettled

at his discovery of the program that she didn't understand.

"Oh, it's just that I'm going into a bio-chemistry program at a college I'd been

accepted at. Does this program come with the system?" He asked.

"Sure, if you want it. That um, was something my brother installed. I never

really understood it myself," she stammered.

Brian felt as if she were hiding something, but minding that he was a guest in

the woman's home, he wasn't a police officer questioning the lady, nor was it

any of his business, he wisely avoided pursuing the matter.

"Does the PC come with all the manuals and software? Discs and documentation?"

Brian's father inquired.

"Oh yes, I kept everything." She replied.

"Are you the original owner? I' m just curious because you're selling it, but

there's someone else's name the machine is registered to," Brian asked.

"The machine isn't stolen, if that's what you mean, " she answered defensively.

"My brother gave me that system, and I just decided to get another one. I'd like

to have the cabinet for my new system."

Sensing that he was getting into sensitive territory, Brian wisely avoided

pursuing that topic, but couldn't figure out why the woman was so antsy and

nervous. Brian continued going through some of the files, finding some very

interesting notes on biomolecular mass densities, but being short on time,

decided to peruse the notes later. Right now, he decided this was a system he

did not want to pass up just because he was suspicious of the unusual things he

detected about the woman's personal life.

"I'm satisfied. Everything's in good order here. If you're still interested in

parting with it, I'd like to take it."

"Um, sure. If everything is acceptable to you, I'd like you to have it," she

offered.

Brian's father opened up his billfold, paused for a moment, then flipped to the

checkbook portion of it. "Can we write you a check?"

The woman appeared nervous at this point, and indicated, "Actually, I'd prefer

cash. I, uh, don't mean to cast suspicion on you nice people, but barring any

mixups at the bank, I'd rather not have to deal with any misunderstandings over

a check that comes up NSF..."

"Oh the check is good. You don't have to worry about that. It's just that if the

monitor goes out tomorrow, I'd like to be able to protect myself too..."

Sensing a Mexican standoff on the horizon over method of payment, and

potentially killing the deal, Brian intervened.

"Uh, Dad. It's OK. Really. I'd really like to have this system, and there really

is nothing wrong with it. And even if the screen kills tomorrow, I'd rather just

pay another couple hundred dollars to get it up again, than pay twice what this

woman wants for a system I'm just going to have to configure myself for more

than what she's asking on top of that," Brian said.

The older man sighed, then peeled to the back portion of the wallet, pulling out

six one-hundred dollar bils.

"OK, son, it's your money. My apologies ma'am. I didn't mean to imply anything

unfavorable about the system," the older man offered.

"It's OK. He's your son. I'd be similarly protective in your shoes," she

laughed, becoming somewhat more at ease upon receiving the money.

'Good enough for me. In the meantime, let's get my boy's new machine all packed

up." the older man pressed as he put his wallet away and started helping the

young woman and Brian disconnect the components from within the cabinet. Three

round trips later between the house and the small Mercedes, the young woman was

waving them off. Had the two men been a fly on the wall, they might have been

very surprised at the exchange that followed.

"Are they gone yet?" a tiny disembodied voice from out of nowhere inquired.

The young woman smiled, and reached down between her breasts, producing a very

small four-inch tall young male laying in her soft palm, dressed in a very small

pair of jeans and wearing a handmade t-shirt.

"Yes, Billy, they're gone," she replied.

"I don't know why you gave those people such a hard time, Vanessa. They seemed

nice enough" the tiny man responded.

"Me? I'm not the one who forgot to change their name on a computer that I was

supposed to be selling. If I hadn't been quick thinking, I might have been going

to jail for selling stolen property!" Vanessa defended with some elevated

concern.

"OK OK, I'm sorry. I should have thought of that. I also should have remembered

to get rid of that software. Damn! That means that my older version of the

formula is still on there!" the young man exclaimed.

"You mean the formula for the chemical that shrank you is on that machine? We

have to get it back!" Vanessa declared with alarm, nearly jarring Billy out of

her palm.

"Hey take it easy! It's .. it's not that big a deal. it's not even the same

formula!" Billy stammered as he tried to recover his balance.

"What do you mean? You mean that version of the formula doesn't really work,"

Vanessa asked hopefully.

"Oh it works alright. But it's a flawed model. He sounds like a sharp kid. I

think he'll figure that out for himself eventually, then lose interest in it."

Billy assured.

"Are you sure? Vanessa replied.

"Of course I'm sure, honey. After all, what could possibly happen with such a

flawed version of the formula. It's not like he's going to use it on himself or

anything, especially after he tests it and realizes that for himself." Billy

explained.

"Well, if you say so, Billy..." Vanessa concurred, very carefully taking her

tiny charge back in the house with her before someone spots her talking to her

hand -- or worse, the four inch tall man inside it.

"Don't worry, Vanessa. Nobody's that stupid, right?" Billy assumed. The two men

were soon on their way home with their newly purchased PC. Brian thought it odd

that his father was being so quiet.

"Are you OK, Dad? You've, um, been kind of quiet," Brian probed out of concern.

The older man's face smiled briefly and said, "Ah, I'm alright, son. This is a

bit of an awkward moment for me. My oldest boy is finally leaving the nest. I'm

so proud of you, but it's a bit of a bittersweet moment for me, your mother, and

yes, even your sister, Ellen."

"My sister is going to miss me? You've got to be kidding me. She's been bugging

me for a month about how she's going to get my room," Brian replied skeptically,

then gets more serious for a moment, "but let me tell you something, Dad. If she

so much as breathes on my comic book collection, there's going to be trouble

when I come home for the holidays!"

His dad chuckled. "Don't worry, son. I'll safeguard your comic book collection

up in the attic. Your original issue of X-Men #1 will stay unmolested in its

glass frame, I promise."

Brian breathed a sigh of relief, then asked, "so what did you mean, by this is a

bittersweet moment? I.. I thought you'd be happy for me."

"Oh I totally am, son. We all are. But we're still your family, and well, the

house will be different with you away," he explained, failing to disguise the

tear forming in his eye.

"Aw, dad..." Brian gushed. At that moment, his father's cellphone buzzed in his

shirt pocket.

His father held the wheel to the Mercedes with his one free hand as he used his

left to pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Daddy, Uncle Ned dropped off Brian's gift, and now I really hate him." the

teenaged female on other end threatened.

The older man smiled and said, "Now, honey. Be nice to your older brother. This

is his special day, and you need to be nice to him during the time he has left.

I know you too have been rivals from the day you were old enough to walk, but

now is not the time for that, baby."

"Is that my ratty sister, Dad?" Brian asked sarcastically. After his father

turned with a disapproving expression, Brian quickly changed his tone.

"Tell her I'll miss her, Dad," Brian smiled.

"I heard that, and he's lying Daddy, I swear! He's up to something! You

can't..." she started to plead desperately before the older man interrupted her.

"Now, honey, I know you must be jealous right now..." the father started.

"I'm beyond jealous, right now, Dad. He.. he's getting.. Stella. Uncle Ned's

pride and joy. The car that Uncle Ned used to have us wash when we misbehaved at

Aunty's house! I can't believe he's getting such a beautiful car!" the girl

complained.

"Don't worry, honey. You'll be graduating too in a couple of years, and I

promise that you will get a," the older man quickly searched for an alternative

word as he nearly spilled the beans on the surprise he was planning to unleash

on his unsuspecting son. "Er umm.. similar treatment, hon. I can't talk right

now, OK? I'll talk to you when we get home."

"OK, Dad, but one more thing?" the girl pleaded.

"Yes honey?" the father inquired.

"If I wind up getting something cheesy like a savings bond or something like

that, after he gets... *sniff* something like this....I'm going to be really

upset!"

"Now, now honey. I wouldn't do that to my little girl. I promise you your send

off will be just as memorable. I promise. Love you! Bye baby!" the father

reassured as he clicked off the call.

"Dad?" Brian asked.

"Yes, son?"

"I.. I love you. And.. and I'm going to miss all of you. This is kind of scary,

being on my own for the first time. I .. I won't know what to do," Brian

stammered.

"Just be careful, and use your best judgement, son. And you know we will always

be here for you anytime you need us," the father reassured.

As the car was pulling up, Brian saw a familiar car parked in the front lawn. At

first, he was suspicious, then his eyes widened when the truth hit him. His jaw

dropped completely.

"Dad why did Uncle Ned park on our.... oh. My. God. He didn't...."

Parked on the front lawn was the car that Brian knew from the earliest days of

his childhood. His uncle's most cherished possession. A shiny black 1970 Mustang

convertible, its white vinyl top down and booted. With a huge red ribbon

strapped across the midsection, and a hand scrawled sign in the windshield that

said, "Happy Graduation. From Uncle Ned and the family."

"Dad? Uncle... Ned.. isn't... he didn't.. did he?" Brian's mind was racing in a

dozen different directions simulatanously. This was a car his father's brother

obsessed over. Customizing it carefully, but adding nothing that would detract

from the car's pristine, outwardly factory-looking appearance. The car gleamed

like a black metal jewel, with not even a day of age showing on its

showroom-clean bodywork.

"Yes, son. That is, er was, Uncle Ned's prize Mustang. Now it's all yours. A

gift from everyone in the family. Especially Uncle Ned."

Brian was out of the Mercedes in two seconds. And descended on the midnight

black musclecar in even less time. He sat in the white leather, fully optioned

interior, jaw agape at the slowly dawning concept that Uncle Ned's most prized

possession was now his own.

"You won't go very far without these boy!" a familiar, husky male voice sounded

behind him, a large gentle hand teasingly dangling the metal keys to the

ignition and trunk on a keyring that itself was just as immune to the passage of

time as the vehicle it mated to.

Brian turned around in his seat and hugged his uncle around his thick neck. His

father's older brother Nathaniel Edward Weller, known simply as Uncle Ned. A

stockier man than his father, with salt and pepper hair on the sides, gratefully

hugged his nephew with a congratulatory embrace. The slightly stocky fifty-four

year old walked around the rear of the black beauty he had nurtured for so long,

opened the passenger door, and gently guided his large aging frame carefully

into the vehicle's passenger seat.

Brian turned to face his Uncle.

"Uncle, I.. I don't know what to say. I'm still shocked that.. that you're

letting me have .. Stella. You always told me this.. she.. was the daughter you

never had." Brian recalled.

"Well, boy, your uncle ain't getting any younger, and I have to admit, Stella

has aged a lot better than her owner has. As much as I love this car, my old

body can't really enjoy her the way I used to," Ned confessed wistfully.

"But why me? I always figured a young guy like me would be the last person you'd

entrust with your baby. And I know you, Uncle Ned. No matter what, I know she'll

always be your baby to you." Brian reasoned.

"I was saving Stella for your cousin, my oldest boy Nick. I know he was upset

with me when I gave him my old beatup truck, 'cause I know he was fully

expecting to get Stella. Well, I gotta confession to make, " Ned began, then

with a quick amused look that belied seriousness, said, "and if you ever tell a

soul I'll deny everything!"

Brian looked straight into his Uncle's eyes as he continued, nodding in

agreement.

"That old pickup was a test. I figured that if he would take care of that pickup

and drive it responsibly, maintain it and everything, I was going to let him

have Stella for HIS graduation. Of course we both know what he did, don't we?"

his uncle inquired.

Brian nodded. Nick got drunk after a game two years ago, and totalled the pickup

in a rollover. Luckily, his careless cousin, a part-time seatbelt wearer, was

thankfully strapped in at the time. Police later determined that Nick had

wrecked the truck in an illegal street race.

"Your father and I talked about it for a while. We knew that both you and Ellen

would have been responsible caretakers of Stella, but what settled it for me is

that I've known for years that YOU were the one who loved Stella as much as I

do. Your sister would have taken care of it, but she's no car nut like we are.

She would have treated Stella as stylish transportation. I wanted Stella to be

in the hands of someone I knew would love her as I did," his uncle decided.

With that, he smiled, and surrendered the keys to his grateful nephew, with

several pocket cameras going off to capture the event on film.

Brian couldn't help but start sobbing. He held his uncle close and kissed the

old man on the cheek. With that, the old man exited the 31-year-old vehicle, and

everyone else gathered around, bringing forth a cake lit with candles and

singing "He's a jolly good fellow." Brian got out of the car and enjoyed the

party, which lasted well into the night.

August 20, 2001. The Freshman Dormitory to Dulane University.

Brian and his father have finished unpacking the various belongings from the

U-haul truck. Somewhat exhausted, his father looks at his son with fondness, not

able to disguise the difficulty he has having with cutting the last strings to

his beloved son.

"You sure you're gonna be OK, son? You can always come back to the house and

we'll bring you back here when your classes start," his father offered.

"I'll be alright, Dad. Besides, if I'm going to learn how to fend for myself,

now's the time."

His father looked around as if trying to get away with something. He then

reaches into his pocket and drops something into his son's pocket.

"Here. Don't stay locked up in your room. Go check out the outside world. Just

be safe, and be responsible OK?" his father cautioned.

As Brian withdrew the bill and looked at the crisp Ben Franklin his father had

smuggled into his pocket, he reached out and embraced his father.. holding him

close. "OK, I think I saw some cute girls as I came in. Think I'll head over to

that cafe we passed by on the way in."

The two men held each other for a minute, then the father tore himself away,

smiled, and bid the boy farewell. Brian waited until he heard the diesel engine

of the truck come to life, the transmission engaged, and the truck's noisy roar

slowly faded off into the night. Brian waited a few minutes, then unpacked the

new PC first. After hastily rigging everything up on the desk and powering it

on, he spent the next couple of hours setting up the machine's configuration

settings. After catching up on his email and viewing a few of the GTS sites, his

stomach started to growl with a familiar complaint: Food. Now.

Brian sighed and powered off the PC, locking the door, then getting into Stella

and driving to the cafe he had mentioned to his father.

Shortly after Brian arrived, a 2001 Mercedes SLK convertible (the small roadster

with the folding hardtop) glided smoothly and silently into the same parking

lot. Its driver was a very handsome and athletic dark haired man. Steven

Markwell, comfortably squeezing his 6'8" frame into the car's compact

dimensions. His companion was a caramel-colored African-American woman named

Samantha Barstow. The two couldn't have been more contrasting.

Steve towered over the pretty, petite 5'2 Samantha as he emerged from the car

with his attractive companion. Steve, a senior and the most popular man on

campus, literally had everything. The oldest and most influential of three

children, his father, an industrial billionaire, gave his oldest son Steve

everything he asked for. Steve's life of privilege had the dual accomplishment

of both fueling his success and inflating his ego. Class President. Led Dulane

Univeristy through three undefeated football seasons in a row. Confidence in

himself exceeding arrogance, his popularity was rivaled only by the fear of

getting in the way of the physically attractive and intimidatingly powerful

young man.

Samantha's mother was a welfare mom who struggled for years in deadend jobs

before finally earning a decent lower-middle class income for her six children.

Her mother took on a night job to put Samantha into the best private school her

small town had to offer. Samantha grew up poor, but it taught her the value of a

dollar, and learning to appreciate the wealth of a person's character. Steve

made her feel uncomfortable, but she found it hard to resist the attentions of

this very attractive, very rich, and very muscular young man. The pretty

sophomore found his attitude bordering on intolerable, but she held her tongue

in criticizing, both out of fear, and enjoying the glow of the wide favor Steve

seemed to enjoy among the other students.

There were six or seven people ahead of them waiting to be served. It was 7:35

pm, and the cafe was a popular hangout among many of the students, particularly

out of town freshmen like Brian who were not familiar with the surrounding city

to bother traveling further from campus in search of larger dining

establishments. Samantha waited patiently, while Steve crossed his arms and

fidgeted impatiently, complaining every few minutes at the less than acceptable

pace of the line's progress towards the front counter.

At last, Brian found himself face to face with the young blonde woman, slightly

overweight but with an attractive smile and a beaming personality. But as he was

about to place his order, his request was almost immediately cut off by another

male voice behind him and about a foot higher than the back of his head.

"Yeah, miss, I'm going to have a double latte, one of those stale cookies in the

front -- by the way, are those rolls fresh..." the taller deeper voice insisted.

Further complementing the man's arrogance was a large elbow pushing Brian away

from the counter almost as if he weren't there.

"Steve! What are you doing! He was here first!" Samantha protested, alarmed at

her date's suddenly boorish behavior.

"Yeah, man! What's the deal? I'm not ordering much," Brian concurred, deeply

offended by the larger man's belligerent behavior, but understandably not

wanting to antagonize such a muscular rival.

Steve smiled with a smugness that induced nausea around him, then loudly

announced to the man ahead of him in a patently bad example of false

recognition, "John! How are you old buddy! Such a kidder! Heh heh heh" Steve

then wrapped Brian's head in a jocular and playful looking headlock with his

powerful forearms, turning to one side to stoop down and whisper in his ear,

while pushing something in Brian's shirt pocket.

"Hey geek. Here's an early lesson for you. Make way for your betters. Here's a

little something for your trouble -- make it easy on yourself and get lost," he

whispered in Brian's ear, still holding him in his powerful forearm's near

joking embrace.

As Brian reached down to feel what tall, built athlete had put into his pocket,

he was hurled to one side onto the floor by the large right hand suddenly

projected from the upperclassman's towering frame. His left arm was tugged

urgently by Samantha, who was feeling a mix of total bewilderment, shock, and

anger at her date's totally unacceptable behavior.

"My God! Steve! What are you doing? Are you insane?" She exclaimed

In the blink of an eye, the unthinkable happened. As Brian got up, just as

bewildered as Samantha by the hulking jock's total lack of civility, Steve

turned unexpectedly to his left. Steve's right elbow lurched toward him,

colliding with Brian's nose with the force of a freight train, and knocking him

onto the empty table behind him. Brian felt warm liquid erupting from his nose.

He looked down in shock at his hands covered in his own blood. Racked with pain

all around his back as he staggered clumsily to extract himself from the broken

wooden table he landed on.

Samantha covered her mouth in unbridled horror. She fled from the brutal man she

came in with, rushing to the side of the relatively shorter and skinnier

freshman who was losing quite a bit of blood. Thinking quickly, she grabbed the

table napkin near Brian and pushed it to his face.

"Press this to your face quickly. You're bleeding really bad. We've got to get

you to a hospital!" Samantha instructed, immediately taking charge of this

completely jarring and unexpected situation she had been unwittingly thrust

into.

Steve's jaw dropped, his brow scowling, showing total contempt for the man he

had seriously injured.

"Samantha what are you doing? For pete's sake, someone call 911! Samantha,

you're embarrassing yourself by making a scene!" He bellowed.

"What? I'm making a scene? You brutally injure this man, and I'm making a

scene??" Samantha exclaimed incredulously, alternately scowling at her

now-former date and tending to her impromptu patient with no small amount of

genuine concern. As Steve stepped toward her, Samantha's heart raced. Not with

desire, but disgust and fear. She seized a butterknife laying near them,

brandishing it at the giant of a man advancing toward her.

"You keep away from me, you... you monster. You.. you make me sick. I can't

believe I got tied up with you," she glared, alternately tending to Brian and

keeping a watchful eye on Steve, her shaking hand clutching the knife in fear

for her safety and that of the young man she was tending to.

Steve advanced toward her again, when he heard a click from across the room. The

owner, an overweight, sixty two year old chain-smoker, had a double-barrelled

shotgun trained on him.

"That's enough, Markwell. I've seen you do some really stupid crap but this

sinks to new lows. Every patron in here saw you butt your way to the head of the

line and attack that young man. If I see you take another step closer, I'll put

buckshot in your lily-white ass so fast you won't feel it for a week!"

Steve looked around, realizing that everyone was glaring at him, and noting that

Merelda had a shotgun aimed at him, scowled in defeat, looking at Samantha and

Brian with contempt before finally throwing up his hands in disgust, leaving as

the crowd around him cheered at his departure.

Samantha looked at Brian, his clothes soaked in blood, his breathing getting

more shallow. She asked him, "We gotta get you to a hospital. You got a name,

mister?"

Brian panted weakly, feeling somewhat faint but found strength in the comforting

dark glow of his impromptu nurse's deep brown eyes. "Bron...." he pronounced,

intending to say Brian, but his voice muffled by his blood covered towel.

Understanding the urgency of his situation, he gasped out one last bit of

information, holding out his car keys.

"Black... Seventy... Mustang... ragtop.... " He muttered as he handed her the

keys.

"Hope.. you can drive a stick...." he muttered, alluding to the car's

factory-equipped four-speed manual transmission before passing out.

At that, restaurant patrons immediately crowded around to help lift Brian to

their collective shoulders while escorting Samantha out to Stella parked

outside. They gently eased Brian in the passenger seat as Stella hopped into the

open interior in a manner that would have otherwise horrified Uncle Ned, but

under the current circumstances, would not have disapproved. The car's 351 cubic

inches roared immediately to life, as Samantha expertly guided the stickshift

into reverse, and then rapidly upshifted just as knowingly to the car's

emergency destination.

University City General Hospital: 12:23 am

Samantha was sitting in the waiting room, reading through a two-month old issue

of Cosmopolitan in the lobby when she overheard an older man asking to see Brian

Weller. She immediately got up and went to meet him.

"Mr. Weller? Are you Brian's father?" She asked with uncertainty.

"Yes, I am. Are you the young lady who brought him in?" He inquired.

"Yes, I am. The doctors told me he's in surgery, but they think he'll pull

through. I am so sorry all this happened, Mr. Weller," she pleaded.

"Can you tell me what happened? The doctors weren't able to tell me much except

to say that my son had been admitted to the hospital with a crushed nose and was

in intensive care. I.. I can't believe this is happening. I.. I just dropped him

off ... a few hours ago..." Mr. Weller broke down in tears, and Samantha reached

out to embrace the sobbing middle-aged man, to comfort him. Samantha found

herself losing emotional grips as well as she recounted what happened to Mr.

Weller.

When she was finished, and each had dried their eyes, Mr. Weller continued.

"Who is this guy? He thinks just because he's rich he can brutally assault my

boy?" Mr. Weller asked angrily.

Samantha struggled to maintain her composure. "Mr. Weller, if I had suspected or

known at all that Steve Markwell was violent, I would not have gone within a

mile of the man! I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to say, I swear!"

Mr. Weller softened. "I'm.. I'm sorry. I'm just scared that's all. This is my

son's very first night at college, and he's fighting for his life in a strange

hospital far from home. It's not your fault."

They were interrupted by another voice coming from behind them. "Anthony

Weller?" A man in surgeon's scrubs inquired of the two.

"Yes? I'm Anthony Weller," the older man announced. The doctor approached and

quickly shook his hand, introducing himself, then looking at Samantha with

uncertainty.

"Doctor Bill Sheffield. I, um, have some information on your son's condition,"

still glancing back at Samantha, asking her, "are you part of the boy's family,

ma'am?"

"She brought him in, probably saved his life. I'll allow her to stay and hear

this, Doc," Mr. Weller permitted.

"As you wish, Mr. Weller. We were able to stabilize his injuries, which

thankfully, were localized to the center of his face. We have a brace affixed to

the center of his face, but most of the bones were crushed and will have to be

reconstructed. Your boy will require reconstructive surgery to avoid being

facially disfigured," explained Dr. Sheffield.

"Reconstructive surgery? How many operations? How much will this cost?" inquired

the worried father.

"We're not sure at this time, but typically this type of surgery usually starts

around the five figure range and up. I wish I could give you a specific figure,

but we won't know how much damage we're dealing it until the bones set in two to

three weeks. Other than the facial damage, your boy is otherwise in stable

condition and will pull through this," the doctor reassured.

"When can I see him?" Mr. Weller asked Dr. Sheffield.

"He's resting now. Mr. Weller, he's had quite an experience. It would be in his

best interests if you allowed him to rest. He should be regaining consciousness

around early afternoon," the doctor informed them. With nothing further, he

nodded to them both and departed.

Mr. Weller stood stone faced for a moment, considering what he had been told,

then turned to Samantha.

"Ma'am..." he began.

"I'm sorry. Where are my manners? I'm Samantha Barstow, Mr. Weller. Athough I

wish we could have met under... more positive circumstances, it.. it is a

pleasure to meet you," Samantha offered as she extended her hand in friendship.

"Ms. Barstow..." Mr. Weller started again.

"Samantha. Please," the young woman insisted.

"OK... Samantha. First of all, I want to thank you. I am endlessly grateful to

you for saving my son's life. It's been a long drive, and I'm going to get

something to eat. You're welcome to come along," he offered.

"Actually, I really do have to be getting back to my dorm. It's nearly 1 am, and

I am nearly wiped out from this very tense experience. Can I get your name and

phone number so that I can contact you tomorrow?" Samantha explained.

"Believe me, I understand. I'm going to check into one of the motels out here.

Here's my business card, with my cellphone number on the bottom. Can I get your

information as well? I, or more appropriately, my attorney may need to contact

you about what happened," Mr. Weller asked.

"You know what, I am only too happy to give you whatever you need, Mr. Weller.

Mr. Markwell is an animal that belongs in a cage, if you don't mind me saying

so," Samantha declared as she quickly jotted down her information, and handed to

Mr. Weller the slip of paper that Steve had given her a week before, with his

name and phone numbers.

Mr. Weller laughed, and the two shook hands, parting their separate ways. Just

then, Samantha turned and asked one more thing of Mr. Weller.

"Um, Mr. Weller? One more thing?" She asked.

"Yes, Samantha?' Mr. Weller replied.

"Considering the circumstances, um, that I arrived at the cafe in Mr. Markwell's

vehicle, I.. I drove your son to the hospital in his car. I.. I didn't bring my

own vehicle," she explained.

"You seem like a very responsible and sincere young lady, Samantha Barstow. I

would not have any problem with you using my son's vehicle while he recovers.

It's the least I can do to show my appreciation for saving his life," Mr. Weller

returned.

"Thank you, Mr. Weller. It.. It's a beautiful vehicle.. and considering that you

have a lot on your mind right now, I want you to know that it's in good hands

until I can return it to him," Samantha reassured.

"Not a problem, Samantha. Drive safely, and good night," Mr. Weller offered.

The two parted.

6:43 am. Steve Markwell's dormitory, Alpha Lamda Omicron Fraternity House.

Master Bedroom.

Steve Markwell slept soundly in the large master bedroom of the fraternity he

led. Hanging on the wall were several photos of his numerous accomplishments. In

the corner was a glass trophy case, trimmed in gold metal, filled from top to

bottom with numerous trophies acquired in a veritable smorgasbord of athletic

sports since his days in elementary school. On the nightstand was a picture of a

stunningly beautiful redhead, his girlfriend and counterpart leading the Beta

Kappa Pi Sorority, Tiffany Billingsley-Croft. Next to it was a black and silver

cordless telephone, which started to ring right at this moment. Steve reached

for it before his eyes were fully opened, nearly dropping it before managing to

catch it in his quick reacting hand.

"H-hello..." he droned sleepily.

His dull response was met with a familiar, deep gravelly sounding voice of his

father, John Preston Markwell IV.

"I have to wonder sometimes if you are my really my son," the fifty-nine year

old magnate started.

"Huh? Dad? Why do you say that?" Steve's eyes went wide with recognition and

respect upon hearing his father's familiar voice, to whom he was intensely

loyal.

"Because when I read stories like what I find plastered all over the front page,

I wonder if my child was swapped for an idiot's boy!" The older man accused.

'What are you talking about, Dad?" Steve pressed, completely bewildered by his

father's line of question.

"I'm talking about that boy you assaulted in that cheesy college cafe last

night, you jackass!!" the older man screamed, a blood vessel bulging above his

graying eyebrows, scowling in growing rage.

"What the... how did you know about that?" Steve asked, stunned as he fumbled

for words, astonished at how quickly his father had learned about the previous

night's confrontation.

The older man rubbed his temple in furious consternation, then grasped the

newspaper in his large, but considerably more wrinkled hands, stretching the

daily paper flat so he could read the headline aloud to his perplexed progreny.

"BILLIONAIRE MARKWELL BOY ASSAULTS OUT OF TOWN TEEN...." the older man read as

he struggled to maintain control, feeling his blood pressure rising by the

minute, continuing briefly as he read the secondary headline "Charges filed by

local sheriff's office..."

"Oh @!#$!" Steve declared, jumping out of bed, and looking out his window just

in time to see his fears confirmed by two late-model black and white Crown

Victorias, with "University City Police Department" prominently displayed in

their usual locations.

The older man, somewhat relieved that his son was finally comprehending, calmed

down and continued.

That was how I reacted as well, son. Listen, first of all, don't run or try to

flee..." the older man instructed.

"But Dad! They coming to the front door to take me to jail!" Steve panicked.

"Running will only make things worse, son. Listen, I'm already flying my best

attorneys down there now. They'll have you out by this afternoon. You are not to

run or flee or resist arrest, do I make myself clear?" The older man requested

of his son.

Steve turned from right to left in frustration as he heard the door being

knocked, then two of his frat mates receiving the officers. Realizing that he

was caught, and reluctantly complying with his father's request that he not

become a fugitive, confirmed the instructions he received.

"OK, Dad. Listen, they're here. I have to go now. Talk to you later," Steve

replied.

"Don't worry, son. We'll get through this," his father reassured, then

terminated the call.

The four other men in the fraternity house could only stare and gawk as they

watched their group's leader and senior member's imposing frame being guided

into the rear seat of one of the police cruisers, at a loss to understand what

their next move was going to be.

University City General Hospital, Head Trauma Ward, Room W455, 11:06 am.

Brian Weller awoke feeling as if his head had collided with Mike Tyson's fist --

and lost the confrontation. As he slowly opened his eyes, his nose ached most of

all. His vision was partly obscured in the center by the huge white bandage with

two metal braces wrapped around each side of his head, holding the badly damaged

nose bones in place. As his vision cleared, he learned he had company. Some very

familiar, and one only slightly less so, but no less welcome: his family, and

his "savior" from the night before, Samantha Barstow.

Looking to Samantha, he said, "At first, I thought I had died and gone to

heaven..."

Then he looked to his sister Ellen, her eyes welled up with tears of joy seeing

her sibling slowly awakening, and joked, "But since my sister is here too, it

might be the other place instead...."

His sister ran over to his left side, and being mindful of his injuries,

delicately placed an affectionate, sisterly kiss on his cheek, "Yeah, I love you

too, bro. Flew on my broom right on over to see ya."

The entire room erupted with laughter, each of his family members offering their

well wishing, each bestowing a card and token of their caring, such as flowers,

candy, his father bringing a few of Brian's favorite magazines, etc. Finally,

Samantha spoke up as well.

"I.. I don't really know you that well, but I'm so glad you're all right. I am

so sorry about what has happened, but in a way, I owe you my gratitude as well,

" Samantha offered.

"Me?" Brian gushed. "You saved my life. How.. how can I compare with that?"

Samantha continued. "I... I had no idea that Steve.. that Mr. Markwell was

violent. He.. he asked me out a few weeks ago and I thought he was a nice guy.

I... I was horrified when I saw what he did. If... if I hadn't seen that, I

might have been drawn into a very abusive and frightening relationship. I... I

thank you for that, but I'm sorry you had to get hurt so badly in the process."

"Gosh... wow. I'm no hero. Are you sure you got the right room?" Brian punned.

The room erupted with laughter for a moment, then his father spoke up.

"We... we're going to get the guy who did this son. The police have already

charged him with aggravated assault. We're also taking him to court..." his

father explained.

"I'm glad he won't be hurting anyone else... that he's in jail, but why are

you..we... suing him, Dad?"

Samantha looked around at the concerned faces, Mr. Weller nodding to her as if

giving approval to something, then explained. "The doctors said you've got some

major injuries, Brian. You're going to need plastic surgery, and the amount you

need is way beyond what your family can afford. It's only right. Steve did this

to you, and whether he intended to or not, he ought to be the one who fixes

this."

"Plastic.. surgery?" Brian fumbled the words in shock, gently feeling the edges

of the huge cast on his nose, his jaw agape in shock. His first taste of college

was turning into a nightmare.

Brian frowned in frustration, despairing that he might be disfigured for life

after the surgery.

"When... when can I get out of here?" Brian asked.

"They're letting you out tomorrow, son. We're going to bring you back home. We

never should have brought you here," his father informed him.

Brian could feel his heart breaking. His dream of leaving home, and experiencing

college life for the first time, was being systematically destroyed.

He had 24 hours to try to save it. Just then, someone knocked outside the door.

After a chorus of voices chimed an inviting "Come in!", the head of a

clean-shaven African-American young man poked his head and asked, "Is this the

room Brian Weller is in?"

At that moment, Samantha jumped up in recognition at the familiar face to invite

him in. "JC! Come on in!"

Jeffrey Collins smiled on mutual recognition and open the door wide to hug

Samantha, while still holding onto a vase full of yellow roses for Brian. "They

wouldn't let all of us in, so the rest of our crew is outside in the lobby."

Brian smiled as he watched the tall, lanky young man put the roses next to the

other flowers he received. "What do you mean, all of you? How many people are

out there?"

"Not counting myself and Samantha, there's another eight friends of ours, plus

about ten or twenty reporters, plus some officials, and so on.

"What?" Brian exclaimed with alarm, somewhat uncomfortable with all the

attention.

"Dude, when the city's best football quarterback and the school's student class

president gets sent to jail for assaulting a freshman, it's news!" JC declared.

"Well, Brian, if you want, your family and I can go run interference for you in

the lobby, while you meet some new friends," his father offered.

"Yeah, Dad. That would be great! Thanks, I wouldn't be very comfortable dealing

with a large crowd of people," Brian confessed.

His family lined up one at a time to give him a hug before heading outside to

deal with the crowd in the lobby.

"JC, huh? Brian Weller..." Brian said as he offered his hand. Jeffrey greeted

with a firm but not painful handshake.

"My real name is Jeffrey Collins, but my friends call me JC," he explained.

JC turned to Samantha and said, "I'm going to go out and let the rest of our

crew know they can come in. I'll be back." And JC turned around and exited the

room.

"Nice guy, Samantha. Who's he, and the people he brought with him?" Brian

inquired.

Samantha pulled a chair next to Brian's bed and explained.

"All of these people are friends of mine. The women you're about to meet are

from my sorority, Delta Seti Pi. JC is from the fraternity we are partnered with

on DU's campus. Whether you intended to or not, you kind of stumbled onto a

class war that's been going on for years at DU. On one side, you have the Alpha

Lambda Omicrons, the frat Steve leads, and the Beta Kappa Pi's, the elitist

sorority that the Kappas are affiliated with. Together, they officially and

unofficially run the student body."

"Officially and unofficially? I don't understand, Samantha."

"Officially, the two organizations control the offices of President, the student

council, and the disciplinary committee. Unofficially, they also use their

positions to the maximum effect to minimize opposition and harass our

organizations. Filing complaints to the disciplinary committies and student

councils do little good because guess what?

"Both bodies are controlled by the same parties committing the offenses...

terrific. Talk about having the fox guarding the hen house," Brian commented.

Just then, JC poked his head in, and eight other attractive young men and women

came walking in, each bearing a card and either a small gift or flowers. Each

deposited their contribution to Brian's overwhelming collection of get well

wishes already crowded on the nightstand.

"Brian, I want you to meet what I believe are the best bunch of people on the

whole campus! My homeboys..." JC paused for a moment of cheerleading hoots from

the guys as there was a rapid exchange of high fives and handslaps.

"And the prettiest, sweetest.... hotties (the women all either rolled their eyes

or leered sarcastically at the reference) on campus, the Delta Seti Pi's!"

Following was an exchange of hugs between the guys and the gals. "I'll let each

of them introduce themselves to you.."

Gentlemen that they were, the men allowed the ladies to introduce themselves

first. One was an obviously biracial young woman with lighter skin than

Samantha's already light caramel colored, but still apparently African American

in origin who stepped forward with a bright smile, brown eyes, and dark brown

hair just slightly past her ears.

"Hi, Brian, I'm Michelle. As the leader of DU's chapter of Delta Seti Pi. I want

to apologize for the terrible welcome to our school you received at the hands of

our school's rival fraternity. All of us here are appalled and upset with what

happened to you. For what it's worth, we want to welcome you to Dulane

University." When Michelle finished, she bent down and gave Brian an

affectionate, but very brief kiss on the cheek, then stepped back to give the

next lady, an attractive and slightly taller Latina a chance to introduce

herself.

"Hello Brian. I'm Ana," she said in a thick Spanish accent. "I'm from Puerto

Rico, and I just want to let you know that I feel the same way everyone else,

and I hope it does not discourage you from staying here at DU." Ana bent down

and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, as well as a hug. She then backed away

as two Oriental young women approached the bed. One was just a few inches taller

than the other. The taller one spoke first.

"Hello Brian, I am Mariko and this is Arisa. Normally, we would have allowed

Arisa to make her own introductions, but she is an exchange student from Kyoto,

Japan, and doesn't speak much English. My family is sponsoring her here in the

US, and I have agreed to act as her interpreter until she learns enough English

on her own."

Brian looked at them both and said, "Thanks. Please tell her I said welcome to

America, and I hope I will get a chance to help her learn English better."

Mariko complied, turning to Arisa and reciting in fluent Japanese what Brian had

said. Brian saw Arisa's face light up, and she responded with a rapid and near

breathless stream of Japanese to Mariko for about a minute, before stopping, and

turning to smile and wave at Brian.

"What did she say?" Brian asked.

"She says that she appreciates that, and will be looking forward to her lessons.

She also expresses regret at the terrible way you were treated by another

student," Mariko explained.

Brian smiled and watched as Mariko and Arisa stepped back to allow a young man

about Brian's age and height approach the bed. He was a Caucasian male with dark

hair and dark eyes, but his most noticeable feature was a pearl stud pierced

through his lower lip.

"Hi, my name is Pierce. Um, no jokes OK man," he requested as he pointed to the

stud fastened through his lower lip.

"No problem, Pierce," Brian said as he held out his hand. Pierce grasped in

friendship, giving them thumbs up as they withdrew.

Another young man approached. This man was taller and a little older than either

of them, standing about six feet tall and somewhat muscular. He smiled, gave a

thumbs up and tapping Brian on shoulder.

"How you doing, man? Sorry to see that loser roughed you up, man. I'm Nicholas

Anatolov, and I just wanted to let you know some of us are lot cooler than that,

know what I'm sayin'? He commented.

"Yeah, I'm getting the idea, Nicholas. Thanks, man," Brian returned. Nicholas

gave one more thumbs up and nodded his head.

The third young man was a few inches shorter than Brian, with short straight

hair with sort of a bowl type haircut but still cleancut and attractive.

"Hey, Brian. I'm Benjamin Miles. Yeah, I'm with everything these great people

are saying. I really hope that heals up OK." He bent down and whispered

something in his ear.

"Don't let that bandage on your face get you down. These Delta chicks are a lot

deeper than that, if you catch my meaning."

Benjamin then tapped his fist on Brian's, which Brian reciprocated, with Brian

following up with "Thanks, Benjamin."

The next was a taller and somewhat huskier but still trim African American man.

He was chewing gum but was still understandable as he talked while chewing.

"Yo, what's up G? I'm Taylor, and I just wanted to let you know I'm down with

what all these fellas and ladies are sayin'. What that punk did was uncool, man.

Hope you stick around to see what real folks are about around here."

Taylor gave him a high five and gave Brian a hip-hop style multi-step handgrasp

that Brian caught on with surprising ease. He smiled with approval, and put on a

pair of dark sunglasses, taking a seat in the corner of the room.

Brian finally spoke up. "I have to admit, all of you are a really great bunch of

people, and honestly..." Brian's face saddened as he paused, while Mariko

translated to Arisa as he spoke...

"What's up, man?" JC asked with concern.

"Well, my family wants to haul me back home. Seems they got all worried when

this happened. Don't get me wrong, I love my family and all, but I came to

college to be my own man..." looking at Taylor, he added, "know what I'm sayin'"

as Brian immediately pointed his finger, gun-style at Taylor. Taylor smiled,

nodded, and repeated the gesture back at Brian.

Samantha added, "Brian's family is concerned he might be subject to more harm if

he stays here, especially if any of Steve's friends decide to take out a little

payback out on him. But it seems Brian is worried they're going to nursemaid him

like an invalid."

JC looked around and saw urgent faces on his frat brothers, and said to Brian,

"Hold on a sec." JC suddenly extended one finger from each hand in a pointing

style, spun around slowly, and said, "I smell a plan in the room. Huddle,

fellas."

The five men immediately got into a football style huddle, talking in loud

whispers to one another. Brian couldn't quite make out what each was saying,

because some of the guys were talking at the same time, muddling his ability to

discern any one conversation.

"What's going on, " Brian asked out of curiosity.

"That's what they do when they need to have a quick democratic discussion on a

decision they're going to make. We do the same thing, just in a different way

from the boys," Michelle explained.

"Do the other clubs do this?" Brian asked out of curiosity.

"I don't think so. Both of the others have more of a 'pack' mentality. One or

two people run the whole thing, and you're either in and follow direction, or

you're out, and I do mean out. The others are elitist clubs through and through.

Not us. We consider everyone in our houses important, from the head person on

down."

The other girls nodded in agreement and muttered words of support. The guys

broke up their huddle after just a few minutes and JC spoke up.

"Dude, if you'd rather not go to Mom and Dad's Home Health Care, do we have

a..." JC paused to smile to giggle slightly at what was going to be his own

joke, "Preferred Provider Offering for you!" The rest of the men and women

laughed at JC's joke.

"Really? Where do I sign up," Brian quipped.

JC grasped his hand and said, "Well, if you can live with just one simple rule,

you're in, dude!"

"What's the simple rule?" Brian asked.

"What's the simple rule? WHat is the simple rule? You mean you don't know?" JC

asked in exaggerated shock, spinning around to ask his frat brothers who forgot

to tell Brian the simple rule in mock suspicion.

JC turned around again, raised his face upward and closed his eyes as if

expecting something, holding one finger from each hand straight up, asking,

"What's the simple rule, fellas?"

In loud unison, the guys and the ladies all shouted "NOTHING UNCOOL!"

Brian laughed at the brief show put on for his benefit.

"OK, just clarify what 'nothing uncool' means, if you would, JC." Brian inquired

out of curiosity.

JC smiled and said, "Basically, anything illegal or unethical is uncool. Dealing

or using illegal drugs, underage drinking, smacking women..."

Taylor contributed "Especially disrespecting ladies. That's real uncool, man."

"Thank you, Taylor," JC acknowledged, Taylor nodding as JC continued.

"Basically, anything that would shut us down or bring shame on your brothers and

sisters, is uncool. Everything else, hey man, go for it."

Brian thought about it for two seconds and said, "I think I'm down with that,"

nodding to Nicholas who gave an approving thumbs up to Brian's use of the

expression. "So how do I hook up with you cool people?"

JC approached, smiled, and grasped Brian's hand, saying, "I think you just did.

Brother."

Meanwhile, at Univerity City Courthouse, in Criminal Court Division A, Judge

Peter Jorgens' courtroom.

The judge approaches his seat after conferring with Steven Markwell's attorneys

and the Prosecutor. He sat down and addressed Steve.

"Mr. Markwell, you present us with a bit of a quandry, for which this court and

your attorneys have agreed to as a solution. Should it be acceptable to you it

will be implemented immediately."

"Yes, Your Honor?" Steve acknowledged.

"What this court is proposing is that most likely, your family could easily

afford any bail amount, even exceeding the highest legal amount I could set for

you, making you a free man within the hour. Obviously, it is in the District

Attorney's office to make sure you are as accessible as possible, not an easy

task considering your family could whisk you away to reside in a foreign country

to attempt to evade prosecution. However, your defense attorneys have an

interest in making sure you do not spend any time in jail up to your trial 90

days from now, which considering might endanger your safety a man of your

background being with the general prison population, is equally understandable."

The judge paused for a moment, opened Steve's folder and then looked back at

him.

"What we are proposing as our only other alternative, is to remand you to the

custody of your fraternity house. Through the use of an electronic monitoriing

bracelet, which you are to wear at all times, a sensor mounted on the device

will register your pulse as you wear it on your ankle. Should you attempt to

remove or tamper with this device, or be out of range of the receiver for a

period of longer than five minutes, this will trigger a phone call which you

will have sixty seconds to answer. Failure to answer the call will summon the

police to your home, and you will serve the remaining time within the confines

of the Parish jail," the judge declared.

"That is acceptable to me, Your Honor, however I have one question." Steve

asked.

"And that is?" Judge Jorgens inquired.

"I will, need some accommodations to attend my classes at Dulane University,"

Steve informed the judge.

"I am aware of that, M

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