From The Mag

All for a Good Night’s Sleep

Written by The Fuckin' Pilot

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Originally printed in issue #67 (July 2015) of Blue Skies Magazine.
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It had been another long Las Vegas day. For as long as I’d been a “working” skydiver in Sin City, pretty much all the days had been long. Tandem handcams, fat smelly guys stinking of last night’s beer, the stripper who’d been dry humping him four hours prior and 12 hours of dust and grit had me completely ready to crash. Having to fight my way in to the house and keeping the damn orange cat—that was never allowed outside—from rushing the door took the last of my patience and flushed it.

It was the weekend, so the crew I worked and lived with was tearing up the town. After so many years in Vegas, most of those working in the club, the last damn thing I needed was to party, especially since I would have to do the whole fucking thing all over again when the sun came up.

I managed to pull together just enough energy for a really quick workout and a bite to eat, a shower and a few relaxing minutes all by myself in front of the TV before I was ready to call it a very early night. Courtesy one of my closest friends on the planet, Derick Massey (Tandem MASTER extraordinaire and great all-around skydiver, he and I were roommates and chucking drogues together in the sand. Remind me to tell you sometime about an evening with Derick, Salvia, Tom Sawyer on a farm and moving a fence … ), I had an Ambien waiting patiently upstairs for me, guaranteeing an amazing night’s sleep. I’d only used the stuff a few times before but I knew quite well its effects and just how hard they could hit me so when I took it, I was already climbing into bed.

Not more than 10 minutes after the pill had gone down my throat my phone rang. I considered not picking it up, but did it anyway and was greeted on the other end by Miss Michelle! Michelle was kind of a co-worker in that other line of “work” I’d been messing around with on and off for a few weeks. She was a touch more forward than most, and made it very clear she was in search of an evening’s entertainment and a night in with me was what she had in mind. The thought of a booty call from Michelle instantly piqued my interest and had me giving her directions to the house, but also made me completely forget the rest I desperately needed, as well as the fact that I’d taken the fucking Ambien.

So … just in case you aren’t familiar with Ambien:

Ambien (Zolpidem) is in a class of drugs defined as a sleep hypnotic, used to treat insomnia. Users have reported unexplained sleepwalking while using Ambien, as well as sleep driving, binge eating while asleep, and performing other daily tasks while sleeping. Reports of sexual parasomnia (having sex while sleeping) have also been reported.

All of which means you should get a pretty kick ass night’s sleep with the stuff, but you just may manage to get a bunch of other shit done too! If you do manage to stay awake somehow, you’ll not only do a few things you wouldn’t normally do (and probably won’t remember), but you’ll lose a fair amount of coordination and your eyes will play more than a few tricks on you (Google “Ambien Walrus”).

As I contemplated climbing out of bed for Michelle’s arrival, I could start to feel the very beginning effects of the Ambien creeping into the back of my brain so I left my head on the pillow, telling myself I’d get up in just a second.

I bolted upright with a start, not really knowing if I’d heard something or not. Considering Michelle was on her way over (or did I imagine that?) I figured I should run downstairs and check the door. For all I knew she’d been knocking for some time and she wasn’t the type of girl to wait around very long.

Sky families are the best families. |

I walked (stumbled) down the stairs toward the door, realizing halfway down I was stark naked but decided it didn’t matter considering what she was coming over to do, so skipped running (crawling) back upstairs to put on a pair of pants. I opened the door, expecting to see Michelle’s smiling face and curvy figure on the other side but was greeted by nothing more than street lights and a couple of crickets. I leaned out the door just a touch to see if perhaps she was in her car out front, but all I managed to see was a streak of orange flash past my feet and out the front door. FUCK!

The cat was a strictly indoor cat. It was an asshole, and it belonged to the DZO who also happened to live with us, who was also, for lack of a better word, an asshole. He had made quite clear that if his cat ever managed to get outside because of one of us, the offender would be out of the house and out of a job.

A choice needed to be made immediately. Option one: Run (crawl) back upstairs to grab a pair of shorts, then, having given it quite the head start, take off after the cat. OR Option two: Take off after the cat.

It was 10 p.m. on a cul-de-sac somewhere in the general area of Summerlin in Las Vegas. Luckily for me, most of the neighbors were either out for the night or at least inside their houses; if they hadn’t been, they would have seen a 32-year-old white guy rolling his head from side to side, squinting badly out of the lower corner of one eye, squatting down in front of a late model BMW, buck ass with balls a swingin’, trying to sweet talk an overweight ginger cat who was happily lounging under the center of the fucking car.

By my estimation I’d been running naked around the neighborhood after that fucking cat for at least 20 minutes. I’d lost the use of my left eye due to major tunnel vision, I could only walk in a straight line if I was trying to turn hard right, and somewhere along the line had begun humming the theme to “The Greatest American Hero,” but I finally had the fucking cat cornered! Somehow I put myself into an “asshole cat” frame of mind, and managed to catch him by the back leg as he tried to weave past me for the thousandth time. I paid for my success with a good dozen solid blows from the fat fucker’s front claws before I got him by the scruff but I had him and he wasn’t getting away!

As I swerved my way back up (down?) the block to the house I was mentally patting myself on the back. I’d managed to avoid disaster by retrieving the elusive ginger pussy and had not, to my great relief, been arrested for lewd public behavior, or for that matter even been seen. As I finally managed to focus my one good eye on the house and tumble in that direction, I realized out in front, with her headlights glaring straight at me was Michelle, intently watching her “booty call” wobbling up the street—completely naked except for the rather large orange feline held just in front of my junk, blood freely running from scratches up one forearm and across my chest, only one eye visible rolling around in my skull, and apparently very loudly whistling my own rendition of “God Save the Queen.”

“Dude, you look fucking beat! I thought you were just going to chill last night. Get up to anything fun?” asked Derick.

“Got a little ginger pussy I guess, but not a damn thing else!” I said, with a pained look on my face.

“Well, if you need it, I’ve got something to help you sleep …”

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