Head Over Heels

    Sage was, as usual and as always, slinking and sauntering through the house in a way that only Sage can slink and saunter and still look cool while doing it because he is Sage, and Sage was born cool (that was one hell of a run-on sentence).

    Rowen was sitting in the living room reading a book in a way that only Rowen sitting in the living room reading a book can do- aw, fuck it. When Sage, bored and looking for someone gullible to exploit in humiliating ways, walked in and stared at the boy with hair the hue of the meanest blue Meanie in Pepperland. After about five minutes, Rowen glanced up over the top of his book and muttered, “Whadda ya want?”

    He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven Sage for the infamous Ben Dover incident and the rather nasty outcome. Sage crossed his arms over his chest and struck his classic Sage the Blond Mega Playboy pose, hiking up one leg and one golden eyebrow in a suggestive arch.

    “Oh, nothing,” he said airily. “Just contemplating about what a yellow pussy you are.”

    Of all the names that Rowen hated to be called, yellow was second to pussy, and pussy was second to none. Thus making being called a ‘yellow pussy’ a double-whammy insult on his manliness and shucks-be-darned should he sit there and take that kind of verbal abuse from some butter-haired yutz.

    Rowen growled and jumped to his feet. “What’d ya say ta me?”

    “I called you a yellow pussy, and that implied you were a limp-wrist, cowardly, chicken-shit livered, pansy-ass whining little craven.”

    Rowen’s mouth fell open in shock, and Sage reached over and closed it for him, saying, “Don’t do that. It makes you look stupid.”

    Rowen growled and slapped his hand away, feeling odd whenever Sage touched him. “And why inna hell ya call me that for, eh?” he sputtered.

    Sage shrugged. “Because you turned down a dare.”

    “What dare?”

    “The dare I’m about to dare you to do.”

    Rowen tensed and cracked his knuckles. “Tell me,” he muttered.

    “Oh, it’s just a little idea I had. You know how people say they’re head over heels about somebody?”


    “Well, I was wondering if it really is possible, so I chose you to give me a demonstration.”

    Rowen looked suspicious. “Whaddo I hafta do?”

    “Not much,” Sage said lightly. “All you have to do is lie on your back and put your heels behind your head. So you’d be head over heels.” Pause. “Unless you’re not limber enough, a tall lanky scarecrow like yourself-”

    “I’ll do it!” Rowen snarled, unable to stand being insulted by the little punk for much longer. Yet he knew in the back of his brilliant mind that things would go awry and he would probably end up in the emergency room . . .

    So he moved the coffee table to one side and sat down on the floor. Sage watched with a wily grin on his face as Rowen lifted one leg and tried to put it behind his head. It didn’t work, so he tried the other one. Still didn’t work.

    “Maybe if you laid on your back,” Sage suggested, and Rowen did so, raising his long legs into the air and putting his arms betwixt them.

    [Author’s Note: I took a break and tried this. It’s hard, but not if you’re a ho.]

    He shimmied his upper torso until his thighs touched his shoulders and tucked his ankles neatly behind his head. He beamed. Sage clapped appreciatively.

    “Ha ha! I did it, suckah! Now take back what you said.”

    “I take it back.”

    “Scout’s honor?”

    Sage raised three fingers and said solemnly, “Scout’s honor.”

    “Swear on ya mothah’s grave?”

    “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

    Rowen nodded and was feeling quite pleased that he had proved Sage to be a lying bastard son of bitch until . . . he realized . . . that he, Rowen of Strata, had been played for a complete and utter moron. In other words, he was stuck with his ass in his face.

    The expression that flew across his horrified visage was worth more than all the tea in China to Sage, who burst out laughing and had to grab a hold onto the recliner to prevent himself from falling to the floor when his knees buckled. Rowen was flailing around in a helpless welter.


    Sage fell to the floor, shaking with laughter. Rowen swore a curse so foul that even my swearing ass dares not to write it, and let his arms fly through the air in an attempt to reach Sage. The blond sat up, wiped a tear from his eye and crawled over to Rowen, who groaned, “Fuckin’ ay, my hips ‘a killin’ me.”

    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sage said. “I really didn’t mean to laugh. Really. Here, I’ll help you-”

    As he reached for Rowen, the lad suddenly scuttled backwards as fast as he could.

    “What?” Sage asked in surprise.

    “Who are ya an’ what have ya done with Sage?” Rowen snapped, unwilling to believe any good could come out of any person as vile and perverted as the young man before him.

    “Aw, what’s the matter, Ro?” came the unnervingly calm reply. “Am I scaring you?”

    He crawled on his hands and knees toward Rowen — who’s posterior was in a very vulnerable position, I might add — and stared down into his frightened face, placing his hands on Rowen’s thighs and licking his lips dangerously.

    “Don’t you like being scared? ‘Cause I know ways to petrify you-”

    Suddenly, Ryo, Kento and Cye walked through the door of the living room and saw the scene on the floor. Ryo was struck with a bloody nose and had to hasten himself to the lavatory. Kento bleated like a sheep that had just been juiced with a few decent volts of electricity and Cye profanely exclaimed, “Bleedin’ Christ!”

    Rowen sighed in relief and Sage scowled in dismay.

    “Lemme guess,” Kento said. “His name is Ben Dupp now, right?”

    Sage blinked. “No. It’s Rowen.”

    Kento made a miffed sound and Cye shook his head sadly.

    Sage grinned. “Rowen Upschitcreek!”


A/N: *facepalm*