"UUUUUUUUUUUUUUhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." groaned Ricky Reynolds in the passenger seat of his Jeep Cherokee. He had the strongest urge to vomit, so he rolled down the window and did so. The woman driving his car screamed. Ricky screamed also. After the commotion died down and his ears stopped ringing, he struggled his way into a dizzying upright position.

"What the hell...who the fuck are you?" demanded Ricky.

"I'm Veronica DeVrie," replied the near-stranger driving his car. "We had sex in your room at the party."

"No, we didn't. I woulda remembered that."

"SHIT!" Veronica swerved quickly to avoid hitting a drunken bum attempting to cross a busy street in the middle of the night, narrowly avoiding at least three accidents and a potential involuntary manslaughter charge.

"Watch where you're going, Velma!" exclaimed Ricky.

"The name's Veronica, you rock. And you'd better start thanking me now, because it's me who saved your underage-drinking ass from certain death. Dean Daniels showed up at your party. He's probably still there now collecting I.D.'s and busting heads."

"Damn..." For a moment, the tiny rational portion of Ricky's dinosaur brain struggled with the tidbit of information recently offered by Veronica. If Dean Daniels had seen him there, he would have taken his I.D. and brought him before a review board. The board would have realized he was a football player, and he would have been cleared of all charges!

"NO, dumbass," screamed that small rational part of his brain as the big dumb drunk part grabbed the thought and tried to make out with it. "You would have been kicked off the team and you would have dropped out of school and died of a drug overdose. You have this girl to thank for your continued happy existence. Kiss her now."

Ricky leaned over the car seat and planted a wet kiss on Veronica's lips. Overcome with unrequited lust, she let go of the wheel of the car and placed her arms around Ricky. Once again the jeep veered into the lane of oncoming traffic, narrowly avoiding several accidents and inspiring a flurry of angry honks and hand gestures. Veronica broke Ricky's embrace and shoved his hulking mass into the passenger seat, retaking control of the vehicle before tragic death could preclude any future hopes for hot, late-teenage sex.

Suddenly, flashing lights and the ear-splitting wail of a police siren shattered their horny reprieve. Speeding in the lane behind them, a police car matched their every move, clocking the jeep at about twenty miles over the speed limit. In the passenger seat of the police car, Dean Daniels hungrily licked his lips and pondered yet again the delicious thought of disciplining that pompous, happy bastard Ricky Reynolds.

"Officer?" said the Dean to the driver.

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Do you know how much this collar means to me?"

"I think I do, Dean," replied the cop.

"Perhaps you don't. Do you even understand WHY I want so BADLY to persecute this harmless, extremely stupid young man?"

"That I don't understand, Dean."

"I don't either," replied the Dean, shrugging. "But it sure is FUN! Give me your pistol."

"What?!"

"GIVE me your PISTOL!" The Dean removed the cop's gun from his belt and rolled down the passenger window. Cocking back the hammer, he fired several reckless shots at the back of the new Jeep Cherokee. One of the bullets tore into the back left tire of the car. The tire exploded with a loud bang, sending bits of rubber flying in all directions. A shower of sparks soon sprayed from the rear tire, the result of friction between the bare tire casing and the pavement. In the passenger seat of the police car, Dean Daniels dropped the gun and giggled with delight, while...

...in the passenger seat of the Jeep Cherokee, Ricky Reynolds threw up again, this time covering the dashboard and window with an icky yellow film of vomit. He slid back down into the passenger seat, his face green with dizziness, while Veronica darted her head from side to side, struggling in vain to maintain her composure in such pressured driving conditions.

Speeding down the deserted streets of the suburbs, Veronica noticed a red light quickly approaching. In a split-second, she knew what she had to do. Instead of applying the brake as she'd done for most of her driving life, she gunned the gas, hoping to gain some speed on the police by beating cross traffic through the intersection. As she approached the intersection, she noticed out of the corner of her right eye a trailer truck approaching on the crossroad. She didn't realize just how close that semi was until it barely nicked the back bumper of the new Jeep Cherokee. The collision did little damage to either the jeep or the truck, but it did send the jeep spinning off the road and tumbling down a wooded ridge until it abruptly stopped, colliding into a tree.

Wearing her seat belt, Veronica was merely shaken up and a bit bruised. Unrestrained by any belt, Ricky had flown toward the windshield, his head hitting it with such impact that it cracked the glass. He slumped back into his seat, bloody and unconscious, as Veronica wept quietly in the seat next to him.

"Hey, sorry about the window," said some random drunken fool as he left the party at 999 Foster Street, the last guest to depart in the wake of the police's arrival just an hour before.

"No problem, dumbass," replied Alexis Montgomery, muttering under her breath and slamming the door behind him. "We'll put it on your fucking TAB."

Turning from the door, Alexis surveyed the scene of destruction which she used to call "home." Broken beer bottles, empty cups and hastily discarded undergarments covered the sofas, the tables, and most of the floor. She didn't know how many guests had appeared at what was supposed to be a "little get-together," but she guessed it was probably the entire population of Cuba.

"Stephen? Where did you disappear to?" yelled Alexis as she waded through the cups and fluids.

Behind the closed door of his room, Stephen Craig quickly looked over his attire and straightened his hair in the mirror. Dave was out studying as usual. Ricky was probably out for the night as well. It would be he and Alexis alone in the apartment, until at least tomorrow morning. This was his big chance to tell her how he felt. The alcohol coursing through his bloodstream helped him ignore the obvious ethical problems--he's the editor of the school paper, she's the student body president, a compromise in integrity, biased reporting, puppy love, yadda yadda yadda--and allowed him to focus on more pressing concerns, like how to unhook her bra. But he was getting ahead of himself. Taking a deep breath and a final swig from his screwdriver, he calmly opened the door and stepped into the apartment.

There she was, bending over to pick up empty beer cups. He questioned exactly how to approach this subject, and quickly determined that grabbing her enticing behind would be grossly inappropriate. He cleared his throat and stood up straight, just like his mother had taught him.

"Alexis?" he meekly began. She stood and turned to face him.

"Yes, Stephen? Mess? Clean? Please?"

"Um, no. . .there was something I wanted to say." Stephen quickly looked down to his folded hands, then off to the side.

"I wanted to tell you. . ." Using every ounce of courage in his body, he raised his head to look directly into Alexis's gorgeous eyes. "I wanted to tell you that I think I love you."

Silence. The world stopped. Somewhere in a distant land, a baby cried and a good man died. Then Alexis Montgomery, President of the Student Body and current Love of Stephen Craig's Life, stepped forward and placed a hand on Stephen's cheek, matching his eye contact directly.

"Stephen," she whispered, kissing him gently, "you're wasted. Let's clean up so we can get to bed. This place is a disaster."

After risking all and gaining nothing, Stephen Craig was inclined to agree.