So here's a little something I did way way back in 2010, but for whatever reason never posted it here. Well, this board is in dire need of content, and beggars can't be choosers. So here we go!


I remember the first time I tried to cook for myself. I had just turned the gas stove on, when my friend Billy appeared in the kitchen doorway. "D-dude," he stammered, "you not c-cookin'?"

That Billy. He always was on the slow side. Not stupid, no, far from it, but his slow, stuttering and often unintelligible babbling would lead anyone to the conclusion that he was mentally deficient. Billy was a good kid- perhaps for that reason above any other he was, and would always be, my best friend.

"Yeah dude," I said, taking my eyes off the burning stove for just a moment.

One moment was all it took. With a flash of light and a roar of flame, the drapes on the kitchen window were suddenly alive with fire. I wanted to ask why my idiot parents had put drapes- DRAPES of all things, RIGHT above a gas stove, but all I could manage to sputter in my panic was no more understandable than Billy's ramblings.


Frozen with terror as the fire roared above me, I heard footsteps; distant at first and coming closer with great speed, followed by a man's cry, "Porkchop sandwiches!"

A man, I can only guess he was a firefighter, suddenly leapt into the room. "OH SHIT!" He exclaimed as the smoke detector went off, "GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" He screamed.

Billy and I remained still, paralyzed with fear


With those desperate, pleading words, I had suddenly found my legs' will to move again. With no wasted movement, I bolted out of the kitchen as smoke began to fill the room, with Billy and the fireman close behind. Out the front door we ran, coming to an abrupt stop once we reached the sidewalk.

A firetruck was already on the scene. Normally I'd suspect Billy of prank calling the department again; it had arrived a little too soon for me to believe. Still huffing and puffing from our ordeal, Billy and I were trying to catch our breath when the fireman walked behind us, and put his hands on out shoulders, giving us a reassuring pat.

"My God, did that smell good," he said, as more firefighters poured onto the scene. To this day, I still have no idea which pork chops he was talking about, but it made me no less grateful that he had shown up in our hour of need.

"Det-Detective," Billy stammered, "D-Did you know going in, and you tell me do things, and I don'- runnin'..."

The fireman... the fireman just stared. I guess I've become pretty accustomed to Billy's babblings over the years I've known him, but to this fireman, to hear it all at once now, must have been too much.

He hadn't moved a muscle from then until the time my parents came home. Staring- just staring into the distance as his brain struggled to make sense of whatever it was Billy wanted to tell him. Even now that our house has been rebuilt, ten long years after that day, he's still there.