The Hedges/The Ninth Pool
Gil arrived saying he was fucking fit and ready to fucking go. I asked if he need to tighten up his fucking kit any -- you know, give his fucking speedos a spin in the fucking dryer -- but he said he fucking got primed on the plane. He was fucking *there*, so it was time to fucking go. There's a fucking pool to be cleaned. Pride fucking demands it be done sooner.
Jon sat on his fucking balcony and fucking sang us out as we went. It was a bit creepy to go out to "Livin' On A Prayer", amongst others, but we fucking knew if this took us out, at least it would be in a fucking "Blaze of Glory". We were fucking ready. Besides, Jon sounded fucking brilliant.
Gil led the fucking way as he had it all fucking mapped out, though still adding some fucking notes with his pen. "Check it out! Fucking titanium alloy nibs! Bought it a the fucking airport. They said it was the same ones they use on the fucking space shuttle.
"Ok, there are nine fucking sections to Cher's pool. We'll work from the fucking outside in, starting with pool nine and working to the first fucking pool."
We got to the edge of Cher's fucking property, kits in hands, speedos fucking gripping tight. Before us were a set of dense fucking hedges from which came all sorts of fucking animalistic noises. "I fucking hope that isn't one of Cher's fucking parties..."
"First, " Gil said, "we have to crawl through these fucking hedges that Cher had put up to keep the fucking public from fucking peeking at her pool. There are some fucking semi-wild beasts in there -- fucking former exotic pets she got fucking bored with -- but if we stay straight and fucking hurry, we'll make it fine.
"After that is the first fucking section. It shouldn't be too bad. This is where the fucking stragglers with nowhere else to really fucking go hang out. Decent enough blokes, but they've never heard of Bon Jovi."
"How the fuck can have never heard of fucking Bon Jovi?!?" I exclaimed.
"Not so fucking loud! There's a fucking albino ape out here who will rip you the fuck up!"
"Sorry, sorry. But how can someone not know the fucking brilliance of fucking Jon Bon Jovi?"
"It happens, man. Some people just never got the fucking chance before it was too fucking late."
Shaking my fucking head, I tried to calm myself. I needed to be fucking *there* if we were to fucking survive this. After just a short fucking time, we arrived to the first section, the ninth pool. Gil was right. It wasn't fucking bad at all. A few empty cans of Busch Lite, a few fucking clumps of hair. There was a fucking toupee stuck in the fucking filter, but I'd seen far worse at The Dorchester let alone after one of Jon's fucking parties. Someone fucking left a bunch of CDs over on the side. Gil was right, no Bon Jovi to be found. Some Winger, Stryper(!) and fucking Extreme, but not even "Slippery When Wet". It was a little depressing, really.
In no time at all we had that section fucking sparkling, packed up our kits and headed out to the eighth pool. I was feeling pretty fucking good, but Gil warned, "Don't fucking lose focus. There is far fucking worse ahead." And we went on.