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Tuesday The elevator doors were still opening as I punched Mark's number into my phone.

"She said yes. Elaine said yes."

On the other end of the line, I could sense his dismay. "So you're going ahead with it?"

"You bet I'm going ahead with it." And feeling like one of those characters in a story, who trots out the back story so the reader is up to speed from the start, I blurted on. "Those idiots have been terrorizing the town for six weeks. All I want to do is get in there, find out who they are, what they want, and if there's anything we can do to get them out of here. And my managing editor just said I can do it."

Then, knowing from the last month's worth of arguing what Mark was going to come back with, "besides, it's not as though we're not talking about a chapter of Hell's Angels. It's probably just a bunch of middle-aged men with big motorbikes, who think it's clever to rev their engines n the middle of the night. How tough are they going to be, really?"

Mark simply sighed. "I guess you're going to find out." He hung up.

Friday How far would you go for a story?

Back in college, I lost count of the number of times I was asked that question. And of how many times I answered it with the same six words. As far as I need to. Although I was only thinking in terms of the law back then, or maybe a hint of deception, and that was as far as I'd ever needed to go.

As local newspapers go, I guess I landed a fairly sweet deal - not quite inner city, but not the suburbs, either. So I'd pursue politicians who looked like they might have something to hide, and I chased down a cop who was a little too free with his favors. And if the law of the land got a bit dented in the process, then maybe it should pay a little more attention to truth and honesty than it does.

Tonight, though... tonight, I'd gone further than I'd ever imagined. First to that store in the mall where they sell the kind of clothes that I'd only smirked at before, because the kind of women who wore them weren't the sort I'd ever spend time with. Maybe I did get a vaguely sluttish thrill as I looked at myself in the mirror, all torn tights and too-short skirt, a top that ended where my ribcage began, and my tits squeezing tight against their synthetic jail. But I was doing it for the story. The story has to come first.

Then to the newsstand, to at least get a working knowledge of what owning a motorbike was all about. Before he stopped picking up my calls, Mark told me there's a lot more to it than being able to read the brand name on the side, and he was right. A couple of hours with some bike magazines filled my head with so many figures that I gained a whole new respect for the people who read them. Because it felt like a foreign language to me. Biker-ese, I smiled to myself, and I knew I'd never master it all. But at least I was conversant, and that's all that mattered.

And then, last night, down to Dino's for Ribs'n'Things Thursday, to get the lay of the land and catch a few eyes, so when I returned tonight there would at least be a few friendly faces for me to hang out with. First in one of the booths where the whole gang had taken up residence; then up in the pool room, where the wagers ran from nickels to bike keys... and then...

How far would go for a story?

As far as I need to go

Yeah, and if I keep on telling myself that, maybe I won't gag on the fattest cock I've ever seen, being jammed down my throat by a guy who smells of stale beer and old sweat.

We're in the rest room. The ladies' rest room. I'd excused myself to go for a pee, an excuse to get down with some note taking, when there

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