Hey ya'll, just letting you know this is another Lance story by Jen...not to be confused with myself (Jen, JTI webmaster). So yeah, she wrote this story...I know she checks the messageboard so you can leave any comments for her there if you so choose. Also, Jen, girl, im me if you see me on okay? Long time no talk. Sorry my slow ass took so long to get this on the site, it's dopeillyfresh, so check it out ya'll.
“I was THAT close,” I groan, using my forefinger and thumb to indicate just how close I actually came. Heaving an exaggerated sigh, I collapse back into a chair.
“Would you like some cheese with that whine?” my friend Debra asks me, receiving a glare in response. “I still can’t believe you kidnapped Lance and tried to rape him!” she exclaims, eyes wider than JC’s after a particularly good dose of crack. We’re sitting in her dorm room at Rhodes College in Memphis, TN, discussing my rapist van adventure.
Her roommate Katherine, a good friend of both of ours, is sitting around trying to get us to talk about anything but NSYNC. “If you ask me, you’re both certifiably insane and need a good 12-step program.”
“I could think of at least 12 steps I’d like to do with Lance,” I mumble under my breath.
Debra hears and struggles to stifle a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”
I fire another glare at her. “Oh hush. As if YOU don’t go to bed dreaming about Lance stripping down to put on a wetsuit every night. I KNEW I shouldn’t have shown you that N The Mix video.”
“I knew you shouldn’t have shown it to her, too,” Katherine adds. “It’s hard to go to sleep when Tearin’ Up My Heart is echoing throughout the room.”
“Hey, we tried to keep the volume down,” replies Debra.
“Suuuuure…”
“Okay, okay, I get the point.” I pause. “We’ll try to only watch NSYNC videos while you’re not in the room from now on.” I slap Deb a high five.
Katherine throws her hands up in the air. “You two are hopeless! I blame the corruption of my roommate on you, ya know,” she states, accusingly pointing a finger in my direction. “If she’d never heard that Getting Sick or whatever it is song, my life might still be normal.”
“Hey, don’t blame me—that’s so not crunk. She downloaded that mp3 all by herself.”
“And will you STOP saying that word?!
“But that word is crunk,” I defend.
“I know that word is crunk. I just didn’t want to say it myself because I’m trying to get you to quit.”
“I know you know that word is crunk. I was saying that ‘crunk’ is crunk. No way can I stop now, dude.”
“I give up.” With that, Katherine turns back to the snake game on her computer.
Debra, in the meantime, had drifted over to her strawberry colored iMac (it’s really just an oversized Barbie computer, but she won’t admit it) and is now drooling over pictures of Lance and Justin.
“Anyway, the reason I’m here is I’m going to try again, and you two are gonna help me.”
Katherine spins around. “No way!”
Debra, still lost in a daze over a Teen People pic of Lane draped over a couch with a half-eaten apple (you all know the one), I decide to count as an automatic partner in crime since her logical mind had turned to Lance-lustin’ mush and was unavailable for consultation.
“Aw, come on,” I beg. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”
“Uh…no.”
“Alright, Katherine, lemme put it to you this way. If you don’t, I’ll lock you in your closet and force you to listen to I Need Love over and over and over and ov—“
“Whoa! Geez, stop it already…I get the point. No need to pull out that song…that’s cruel.”
“That’s what I thought.” I smirk with satisfaction and walk over to Debra, leaning over to peer at her face and wave a hand in front of her eyes. “Dude, she is GONE. Check out that look in her eyes. I don’t think I WANT to know what’s going through her mind right now. Come on, help me get her up.”
Katherine sighs and grabs an arm and tries to move her roomie. Just then, Debra emits a noise that resembles a mouse-like squeak.
“Whoa, we’ve gotta move her now—we’re losing her!” I grab her other arm and pull as hard as I can.
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s the sound Joey makes when he sees a scantily clad 12-year-old!”
“This is worse than I thought.” Together, we finally manage to yank Debra from her chair and drag her down the hall and to the parking lot, tossing her into the back seat of my rapist van…er rapist Sentra. Katherine hops in shotgun and we take off for downtown Memphis.
“I can’t believe you know what hotel they’re staying at.”
I shrug. “The Peabody only seemed logical. It’s so damn expensive no one else can really afford to stay there, it’s posh and Lance will just think the ducks are so cute.” (Author’s Note: If you’ve never been to Memphis, The Peabody is a fancy, swanky hotel in the heart of downtown. They have ducks. These are the—drumroll please—Peabody Ducks. The Ducks live in the Duck Palace on the Plantation Roof, but every morning at a scheduled time, they get in an elevator accompanied by a spiffy bellhop in a fancy uniform, ride down to the lobby and then waddle down a red carpet to the big fountain in the lobby, where they swim for the rest of the day.)
“Is he gay or something?”
“No, he’s not gay, dammit!”
* * * * * * * *
By the time we arrive downtown (about 15min later) Deb has returned to consciousness. I drive through the maze of one-way streets that composes downtown Memphis until I happen upon a van that can be mistaken for none other than Jen’s rapist van. I snag the parking spot on the curb behind her (hey, this IS a story, so I’m allowed to find the perfect parking space behind the van and across from the hotel entrance) and jump out of the car. Debra takes one look at the van and slowly says, “I’m not so sure about this…”
“Don’t be a wussy,” I tell her. “Come on, you two, get out of the car.”
They reluctantly follow my directions.
“Hey, Jen!” I greet my rapist buddy. “Thanks for driving down here to meet me.”
She shrugs. “No biggie. ‘Sides, I figure there’s no better place to be used for sex by Thrustin’ Justin than in his own hometown.”
“You make a good point. Intelligence must come with the name. Anyway, Jen, these are my two recruits for this mission, Debra and Katherine.”
“Oh right, I’ve heard about you guys. Debra, you’re the one who likes the apple picture and Katherine, you’re the one who doesn’t like NSYNC at all. How the hell did she get you to come along?”
Katherine grumbles, “She threatened me with I Need Love.”
Jen looks over at me. “Now, THAT was harsh, Jen.”
“Do what you have to do, ya know?”
Debra has become enthralled with the van and stands gaping at it. “Wow, you were right, Jen. This van IS cr—“
“No, Debra! Don’t do it!” yells Katherine.
“Say it, say it!” Jen and I chant in unison.
“It’s cr…cru…it’s crunk!”
“Noooo!” Katherine covers her face with her hands. “She really HAS turned to the Dark Side.”
Laughing, Jen and I pull my recruits into the van to discuss plans. A few short minutes later, we're ready to go, since we magically have all the supplies we need in the van. Just then, a black Cadillac Escalade pulls up in front of the Peabody, windows tinted to a visibility factor of zero. “So much for low profile travel—that thing is a battle tank!” Debra comments.
Jen responds, “Better than a big ass bus or stretch limo, I suppose. In any case, we have a tactical advantage with the Escalade: we rigged their OnStar system.”
At the recruits’ puzzled looks, I add, “You’ll see later.” I turn my head back to spy out the window as the guys start unloading from their SUV. “Yeah, REAL low profile, Justin,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm…okay, and a little drool, too…as the little Afropuff steps out of the car with a bandanna covered in so many rhinestones, the light reflection from his head alone is enough to solar power a life-size dancing JC doll.
“That’s our Fluffykins for you.” Jen shakes her head in amusement.
“And I don’t know HOW Chris can survive this damn summer heat with that jacket on.”
“Alright, time to move in for surveillance,” I state. The four of us jump out of the van and follow the guys into the hotel. Just as we enter the lobby, a certain deep, smooth Southern voice cries out, “Aw, look at the ducks! Aren’t they cuuuute?”
JC has an arm spasm, which frightens one of the ducks, who quacks frantically. Chris, too, starts jumping all around…at least his jacket does. Busta, who is hiding in the jacket, begins yapping at the ducks, forcing his skeeto owner to run around on all fours barking and making an moron of himself to prevent being caught sneaking in a dog.
By this point, Jen, Deb and I are rolling on the floor laughing as Katherine looks at us like WE’RE the morons. Imagine that…
* * * * * * * *
Back in the van a bit later, it’s time to put the plan into action, and everyone is preparing for their roles. We’ve followed the guys to a local BBQ joint and I want to be ready to go by the time they head back to the hotel. We finish a bit early and have some time to kill, so we decide to chill in the back of the van. Jen strikes up a conversation about Justin’s hair.
“I mean, it just comes out of nowhere—bam! There’s all this nice smooth skin, some really cute freckles and then this forest of hair! All I gotta say is there’s just so MUCH of it, he could at least get it lightened or something.”
“Yeah, as long as he doesn’t overdo it with the peroxide or something like he did with his ‘fro,” Deb cautions. Obviously, we’re not talking about the hair on his head.
“I chime in: “Well, ya know, waxing can be a good thing even for guys. He may need to be careful about exposure for a few days, too, ‘cause the skin will be super sensitive.” No, you pervert! We’re NOT discussing the Ghetto Thruster’s nether region! Though I wouldn’t mind because well, you get the point. I was talking about SUN exposure, not FULL FRONTAL exposure and we’re discussing the ape-like ARM hair, thankyouverymuch.
“You are all nucking futs,” Katherine comments.
“Hey, ladies!” a voice over the van intercom calls.
“Rachel! What up? You got the surveillance up yet?” Jen calls out to the speaker.
“Sure do. Patching you through right now. This job is totally crunk, girl. I’m having so much—oh hold on, I’ve got a call…OnStar, this is Rachel, how may I help you?…no, Sir, there aren’t any tickets available to the NSYNC concert…that’s wonderful, Sir, but I don’t particularly give a rat’s ass WHO you are—you could be Bill fucking Clinton (no pun intended) for all I care, but I still can’t get you tickets! (click)…This kicks ass, Jen. Thanks for the job.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Jen. She’s masterminding this one.”
“Thanks, other Jen! So, how are the…OnStar, this is Rachel, how may I help you?…ew! You sick bastard!…look, this is not a push-button connection to 1-900-FONE SEX…don’t call me ‘woman’!…Justin, is that you? Sicko. (click)…Anyway, how are the recruits holding up?”
“Pretty well. Katherine’s still a bit peeved, but she has a threat of I Need Love looming over her head, so it’s all good.”
“Ouch.”
Suddenly, our video screen comes to life and we see live footage of the guys getting into the back of the Escalade, courtesy of Rachel’s James Bond-ish camera-behind-the-two-way-rear-view-mirror trick, complete with audio. “Alright, so how do you want to do this now? Thanks to Ape Man’s out of control libido, he’ll recognize my voice and ruin the fun.”
The car is on the move. We follow in the van, which is towing my car behind it.
“Hmmm…” I ponder for a moment how fine Lance’s ass is before answering, “Can you patch me through to their system?”
“Surely can. Hold on a sec…alright, you’re in.”
“Crunk.”
Katherine: “(groan).”
“Okay, ladies, here we go-o-O!”
Rachel hits a button that produces The Official OnStar “DING” inside the Escalade.
“Hello, this is your OnStar representative,” I speak in my sappiest phone operator voice into my totally crunk microphone headset.
The guys all jump, which is a rather humorous sight considering the four of the guys smart enough to wear seat belts are jerked back down and look much like JC during a seizure, while JC the Flyweight himself goes flying over the back seat, landing with a ‘thud’ on the other side. “Whoa—that ain’t right!” exclaims Fu Man Kirkpatrick. “I didn’t push the button. Who pushed the button? Did you push the button? ‘Cause I didn’t push the button. That just—“
“Dude, get a grip,” Joey tells him, fwapping him on the back of the head. “Justin, man, were you trying to have OnStar sex again?”
Justin puts on his Innocent Look. “Don’t look at me, yo. I mean, yeah, I pushed da button, but not this time, yo. I ain’t done nuttin’.”
“Will you guys shut up for a second, please?! Sheesh. You’re all a bunch of wussies.”
“We are not!” they yell back at me in unison.
“Sure you are. JC took off like a Giant Flying Space Monkey on crack when I ‘DING’ed in.”
“Well, that’s just JC. I, for one, am NOT a wussy,” the greaseball claims defiantly.
“Hey, FAT-one, your fly’s down,” I inform him in retaliation.
He immediately looks down at his crotch, finding a securely zippered fly. “It is NOT!”
“But you looked, even though you knew it didn’t feel drafty down below, and that makes you a wussy.”
All the guys except Joey burst into laughter. “She got you there, Hammy,” Lance giggles.
“Don’t talk too soon, Poofoo. I think I just heard you giggle like a wussy; but I’ll forgive you ‘cause you have the sexy voice.”
“Dammit, it’s not FAIR! His voice gets him everything! Falsetto is cool, too, you know! It’s not my fault my vocal cords never went through puberty! Just because Lance—ow! Dammit, Joey, that hurt!”
Lance is looking a bit bewildered. “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asks me.
“Uh…no?”
“Your voice sounds so familiar…”
I cover quickly. “Do you also frequently press the OnStar button in the hopes of getting a cheap sexual thrill?”
“That’s all Justin.”
“Then I’ve probably only talked to him, not you.” I turn around to the rapist gang, who are all busy giving golf-clap applause for my fast recovery, and give them a thumbs-up. “Anyway, JC, I just wanted to let you know that the dude on the corner in the leather jacket is one of the best-known crack dealers in the Memphis area,” I lie blatantly, picking out a random guy on the street.
“Stop the car!” he yells. Fubu Drew, who’s driving, does so, and JC immediately jumps out as planned.
“Well, shit,” says Lonnie, who’s riding shotgun. “Someone’s gotta go with him or he’ll get mobbed by teenyboppers.”
“Well, I’m drivin’, so get your ass out of the car.”
Lonnie hops out, slams the doors shut and runs off to chase down Cracknuts. Three more and a bodyguard to go…
“Chris,” I begin, “I’m wired into the Memphis PD and am getting reports of a dog matching Busta’s description having been nabbed from the Peabody by the woman to the right of your vehicle carrying the large Sear’s bag.
Chris doesn’t bother with stopping the car, opting instead to leap from the moving car into the city streets. The wind blasts in from outside and Justin screams, “Dammit, Chris, at least close the damn door! You be messin’ up my ‘do.”
Fubu Drew keeps right on driving—he doesn’t figure Chris will be getting mobbed any time soon.
I turn to Debra. “Do you have your outfit on under the coat?” I ask, referring to the costume she once wore to her sorority’s White Trash Bash.
“Yeah,” she answers hesitantly.
We come to a red light, so I tell her, “That’s your cue. Just run down to the next corner and drop the trench coat. We’ll take care of the rest.”
“I’m not sure…”
“Just do it—trust me. We’ve got you wired. This is foolproof. ‘Sides, it’s all for the greater good of capturing Lance.”
“Well, alright, I guess.” She hops out the double doors at the back of the van and heads for her destination.
Back to business, I announce via OnStar, “Listen up, FAT-one wussy, there’s a cute young gal at the corner with long curly hair—can’t miss her. I hear she’s got the major hots for you.”
Joey’s eyes light up with excitement, and Debra, who can hear me through our seriously crunk undercover wiring system, yells out, “Joey?! I don’t want to pick up Joey!” People on the streets assume she’s delusional and look at her strangely.
“Don’t worry, Debra, we’ll nab you before he gets close,” Jen reassures her.
“You’d better.” She mumbles this time to avoid the stares. “Otherwise I’ll kick your butt.” (Author’s Note: Neither Debra nor Katherine cuss, which is why all the dirty words come from elsewhere. Oh well, more fun for the rest of us!)
“No problem. We’re professionals.”
Joey, being the big greasy monkey he is, had a memory malfunction due to a grease clog in his brain when Chris jumped out of the moving car and cannot now recall the amount of pain that must have caused poor Skeeto Boy. Therefore, he follows suit and leaps right out to pursue Debra.
“Dammit, yo! Shut the damn door!” Justin screeches as he reaches over to yank it shut.
Joey moves about as fast as a man his size can move toward my innocent friend. It’s no wonder they gave Lance the nickname Stealth. With Joey, it would be more like Boeing 757. Regardless of how strangely Joey runs, he’s advancing on Debra pretty quickly. Fortunately the traffic is travelling faster than he is (as is most everything, including the sewer sludge) and we’re able to pull her inside the van as we pass.
Fubu Drew is none the wiser, not even realizing the FAT-one had left the vehicle, though the Escalade seems to be handling somewhat lighter to him.
“Man, ‘ho, you are whacked!” Justin yells at me.
“We here at OnStar are pleased to be of service in any way we can…except when phone sex is involved.”
“Yo, woman, you be connected to ‘da police scanner! That ain’t right! How you know all this stuff about us, yo?!”
“Here at OnStar, we make it our business to know your business.”
Justin looks at Lance, somewhat worried that only two of the band members remain in the Escalade. “Somethin’ ain’t right, yo.”
Lance is in a zone all his own. “I swear I know that voice.”
“Okay, Katherine, you ready to do your part for the good of capturing Lance?” I ask her.
Katherine grumbles, “What possible good can come of that?”
“A) You get to drive my car. There are only two other people than me who have done that, and that’s Deb and my dad. B) If all goes as planed, you will get to sit next to Justin Timberlake and the Thruster himself will have put his delicious ass in my shotgun seat. C) You get to mess with the head of an NSYNCer. And D) Three words: I Need Love.”
“Ok, fine.”
At the next red light, the two of us get out of the van and unhook my car, which a wired-up Katherine now sits in the driver’s seat of. I get back in the van and look out the black tinted windows in the back door. “Got your earplugs in?” I ask.
“WHAT?” she yells, thinking I can’t hear her since she could hardly hear me.
“Guess that’s a yes.” I pop her a thumbs up and she blasts my radio, which has been seriously beefed up for this mission, and tunes it to a random rap/R&B station. The song playing isn’t recognizable through the thunderous pounding of the bass. We can feel the vibrations from the bass beat through the floor of the van.
“JuJu, do you feel that beat?” I say into the Escalade. “It’s calling you…”
Mesmerized by the roaring of the Sentra’s killer ghetto bass, Justin hops from the car at the next red light and follows his ears to my car. He motions for Katherine to roll down the passenger window, then shouts, “YOUR SYSTEM IS CRUNK, YO!”
“WHAT?”
“YOUR SYSTEM IS CR—OH NEVERMIND!” He reaches in, unlocks the door and hops in, beatboxing to the rhythm.
When the light changes, Fubu Drew notices a draft coming from the back of the car. Turning, he sees Justin is missing. “Dammit! Lance, where’s Justin?!”
“I KNOW I know her…”
“Sonofabitch, answer me, Lance!”
“Maybe I…”
“Aw, screw it.” At that time, he notices the enormous bass boom from my car, throws the Escalade into park and jumps out after Justin, afraid he’s been abducted by a crazed teenybopper.
Very much on the contrary, Afropuff is cruising around with an NSYNC hater who seems unfazed by his ghetto charm…though he can swear she keeps stealing looks at him.
Leaving Jen behind the wheel of the van, I switch my headset into wireless mode and run from the van to the Escalade, shutting the open door and then climbing into the driver’s seat. I lock the doors and drive off for the nearest Hampton Inn, determined to give their 100% Satisfaction Guarantee one more go.
“From a meet and greet maybe?”
I shamelessly check out my catch in the rear view mirror for a few moments. Yummy. Then I decide it’s time to mess with him a bit more. “If you build it, he will come,” I whisper via OnStar.
Lance squeals, unbuckles himself and scrambles over the seat until he is cowering in the back corner of the car. “It’s you! What do you want with me?!”
I smile mischievously. “Oh, dear, sweet Lance. Such a loaded question…and sooo many ways to answer. I simply want to finish what we started.”
Much to my amusement, he seems a bit more at ease with this idea this time around. “You…you’re not gonna hurt me…are you?”
“No, my little Stealth bomber. Only if you want me to.” I toss a sly grin back to him.
He attempts to smile…nervously.
I try to make small talk. “So, no solo yet, huh?”
“Um…nope.”
“I see you’re wearing leather pants…mucho props to you. They’re highly crunk. You’re a fine MF, won’t you…how does it go again, Lanciepoo?”
“Uh…” he swallows apprehensively and I delight in the adorably sexy movement of his Adam’s apple. “Back ‘dat ass up?”
“Ooooo,” I drawl. “Say it again—this time, with FEELING!”
“You a fine MF, won’t you BACK DAT ASS UP!”
“That’s more like it. Now, I see there’s no dog or horse around, but I understand there’s a ferret in your life now.”
He nods happily.
“Well, it’s no Toby, but it’s progress. So what’s its name?”
“I’m having trouble deciding between Dirk and Abdula.”
“Personally, I’m having trouble deciding between forgetting that I heard you say those names completely and smacking you.” He bites down on his pouty little lower lip to stop it from trembling. I’m forced to roll my eyes despite his cuteness. “It’s all right, you wussy. I told ya, I only hurt you if you ask me to.”
Lance seems to lighten up a bit and inches over the back two seats until he’s sitting behind me. “You’re pretty nice for a rapist.”
“Aw, you’re making me blush…but thanks. I try. Besides, technically, I’m not a rapist yet…just a really cool abductor.” I pull up to the Hampton Inn, park the Escalade and look back at Lance. “Playtime’s over. Out of the car.”
We walk inside, him leading, with me close on his heels. We get to the room (number 69…coincidence? I think not.), which I lightly push him into. He lands on the bed and just kinda lies there spreadeagle. I bounce onto the mattress and straddle his hips Mr. Peanut style (Author’s Note: There’s a peanut store in Memphis that has a Mr. Peanut statue totally riding this barrel…it’s really funny. A landmark that must be seen.)
Lance: “(gulp).”
“Okay, Lance. Remember what we talked about last time?” Lance seems more than slightly distracted and has temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently, so I clue him in. “Giddy-Up is NOT about…”
“Horses?” he chokes. “Not about horses?”
“Riiiiiight. Very good, Scoopster. Which means Giddy-Up IS about…”
“Uhh…I uh…umm…”
I lean over so that our faces are inches apart. “Let me give you a hint…”
(BANG, BANG, BANG)
“This is the Memphis Police! Open up the door, Jen! We know you’re in there!”
“Dammit! This is SO not crunk,” I mutter. Sitting back up I yell, “Can’t you tell I’m busy?!”
“Open the door and release your hostage!”
“My hostage is in a bit of a predicament right now, so he’s not going anywhere until you agree to my demands!”
“Name them!”
“Okay, first off, someone must supervise Lance to make sure he either stays clean-shaven or grows REAL facial hair. No more of this peach fuzz shit.”
“Um…okay, that sounds reasonable. We’ll arrange for a lifelong set of Mach 3 razors and shaving cream.”
“Second, I want you to make sure Lance teaches the other guys how to grab their crotches, because that thing he does with his hand is just so damn delicious!”
Lance smirks. “So, you like that, huh?”
“You bet your ass I do.”
“Ya know, I don’t think I can teach that to the others…it kinda just comes naturally.”
“Well, try.”
The cop calls in, “We’ll see what we can do.”
I nod. “Third, I want to see him in more wifebeaters. Once he gets back down to his normal weight and muscle mass, anyway.”
“We’re on the phone now with Justin’s main supplier. They’ll ship some over. Custom-made. Anything else?”
“45 minutes?”
“Try again.”
I sigh. “Other than immunity, no, I guess not.” Reluctantly, I climb off Lance, and the bed and open the door for the cops, who rush in and pull a somewhat weak-kneed Lance to his feet. As they help him out the door, I wink at him and call out, “You’ve still got my number, baby!”
I leave the hotel to find my car and the van parked in the lot. The girls are waiting around outside. “So, where’d you ditch Justin, Katherine?”
“Somewhere in…I mean BY the river.”
I frown.
“Still no action, huh?” Jen asks.
“So close…and yet so far,” I reply.
I’m starting to hate Apollo 13. (Author’s Note: If you didn’t read about my first attempt or see the movie Apollo 13, I experienced what the crew did: a successful failure. Successful kidnapping. Failure to get action. Dammit.)
