Diplomatic Immunity in Discoland

It was a cold night in Chicago. I walked with confidence (the only way I know how to walk, other than the crab walk - I can do that, but no one is confident enough to pull that off smoothly or confidently). The air was crisp and tense with the electric pulse of anticipation. A thin smile briefly crossed my face but was quickly replaced with a confident smirk.

As I stalked the night in my 5-inch platform heels, I took note of my surroundings from behind my gold Elvis-inspired sun glasses. Women darted to-and-fro, followed by willing men. Between them all darted a current of sexual tension that could only mean one thing - Halloween night on the north side.

Halloween is the greatest holiday ever invented, when candy abounds and women feel the need to channel their inner stripper. If I were to believe in God, Halloween would be the evidence I would cite as my reason.

Thus far, it had been a fruitful night. Despite being with my girlfriend (now wife), I had surreptitiously examined the bodies of dozens of women (and that's why I wear my sunglasses at night). Our group of wanderers were making our way to our final destination of the night - a wonderful blue-collar bar known as the Cork (back before the Cork got it's yuppie makeover). With a good amount of amber perfection coursing through our veins, we stalked in a not-necessarily-direct amble. And that's the moment it hit me. A sense of danger, foreboding, and horror so palpable, I thought I'd suddenly jumped into a Stephen King story. I stopped walking, my eyes nearly bursting out of my head.

"What is it?" I heard coming from my girlfriend's general direction.

"I'll catch up with you guys!" I screamed, turning down Wolcott towards my apartment.

"What's wrong?" a confused voice called from behind.

"I'll catch up. Just go!" I bellowed, now running. Would I make it? Was I too late? Curse my amazing fashion sense and delightful whimsey - why did I wear these shoes? My heart threatened to beat out of my chest as I careened down the darkened street. All around me, curtained, lightless windows stared at my passage. My very own Greek chorus, their voices silenced by the thickening doom.

My legs, clad in their awesome white pants, pumped unceasingly. So close. I could see the building getting closer and closer. I reached into my pocket and fumbled with my keys. As I yanked them from their resting place, I almost lost my grip on them. I nearly choked out a cry into the night. If I dropped the keys, I knew I wouldn't have time to avert disaster. At the last second, I caught onto them and continued my run.

As I reached the building, I took the front stairs two at a time. I crashed into the outer door, and it flew open as though sensing that this was not a time to bring up any of its protestations at my sloppy building management skills. I slid my key into the security door, wrenching it open as the tumblers twisted. Now I had only my apartment door to navigate, and I could prevent all the unholy pain that threatened the peaceful holiday night.

The apartment door opened and the world went into slow motion. I charged towards my destination, perspiration dotting my brow. I bit my lower lip, trying to stave off fate. There! The bathroom! My salvation at hand. I felt a new wave of abdominal cramping hit me.

Whoops. Dang. I was so close.