"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," says the queen bitch herself, Leighlay McKenzie, as she wraps her skinny bitch-ass arms around whatever trunk of a prehistoric tree passes as Haiden's left arm.

Speaking of the unibrow Neanderthal himself, he just stands there, willing a synapse into existence. For what? Only the immutable will of the universe might know.

The wife-beater man shuffles near us, eyes wide open while looking around. "Somebody say pussy? Where pussy?"

"The only pussy I see is in front of me, bro," says Hayden.

I mimic Leighley and wrap my arms around Hayden. He feels like a friend. "Nah, babe. That's a bitch."

Leighlay goes completely red while Haiden, obviously lagging behind the conversation, opens his maw like an ancient tomb, spider-webs and all. "What cat?"

The wife-beater man takes a drag out of his cigarette and flicks the ashes behind him. "No, no, bitch in pen. Name is Sasha. Very good bitch, make litters of strong baby. Only one though. Very big baby."

And with that, the man leaves the story, never to be seen again, maybe. I sure hope so. And in his place, a pregnant silence. Much like a dog about to give birth to a big puppy, it's a bit awkward and long-winded, but it pays off in the end.

"Well, I wanna say it was a pleasure," I say, trying to move around the pair, "but it really wasn't. C'mon, baby, I want you to win me a stuffie. You can't say you've been to a fair until you win your boo a big-ass stuffie."

I say trying, because as soon as we are halfway around the moai-statue of a man called Haiden Whateverthefuck, one of his cow-hide hands stops us. I swear I can hear the cracking of his non-existent neck as he pivots his head towards us. "Where cats?"

"Uh, girl, I think your man is playing with a 999 Ping," I say.

"Or a damaged GPU," says Hayden. "You know, too much bumping that laptop on the school-bag, if you know what I mean."

(Author's Note: The writer has no idea what the hell those things mean, and although it can be fixed with a quick Google search, the writer has declined to do so, because being wrong makes it even funnier.)

"He's not slow!" yells Leighlay. "He just likes to pick his words carefully. Right, babe?"

"Where puppy?" says Haiden. I swear the man is getting dumber by the chapter. But so are the readers. Get dunked on!

"Yeah, your man is running on Windows 7," I say. "Babe?"

It was Hayden's turn to lead us away. But just as I was stopped by the swamp monster on a varsity jacket, he was stopped, but by the words of the melted Barbie doll next to him.

"What-evurr!" she says, misspelling and all. "My man doesn't need to be bright. All he needs is to be the best football player around and get into the NFL so that I can be a stay-at-home wife with rock-hard abs, sipping margaritas and then get a reality show when I get to make my own winery. And he is. Way better than that loser, talentless, limp-dick excuse of a man you call a boyfriend!"

"Hey!" says Hayden, "Ayden doesn't have a limp dick. My man is rock-hard, like diamonds. Like a baby's arm holding an apple made of diamonds. Big and hard."

"Babe, I think she's talking about you," I say.

Leighlay's smirk should've been a dead giveaway, but bless my man's heart. "Ah, whatever, then. I was expelled from the team. I don't even play anymore, so, talent or not, I don't care. If you would excuse us."

We are ¾ of the way around Haiden when Leighlay pipes up again, and I can almost feel the smirk coming from her. Like a wave of piss in a kiddy pool. "Oh, I'm not talking about football. I'm talking about your cooking, Mr. Burnt Praline."

I yelp in pain as his grasp on my hand tightens up so much that it could've easily broken every finger if I didn't pull it out. Every hair on Hayden's body tenses up. He's returning to monkey. I've never seen him return to monkey. One thing is to insult his skills, or to insult me, but to insult his cooking is to poke the bear and call it a fat fuck. This is going to go from bad to worse.

"The fuck did you just say?" asks Hayden, slowly turning around to face the pair once again.

The queen B, on the other hand, smiles that devious shit-waffling grin of hers. "Third date. We went hiking. You brought your homemade Trail-mix with praline in it. And the praline was burnt to shit."

"The only thing burnt here is are your dyed roots," says Hayden, followed by an "Ooooh" sound from around us. Seems like we can't escape an ogling crowd, for a group of attendees has surrounded us, watching with excitement what might be the most interesting thing around, besides the cloud of radioactive flies that occasionally blink the morse code for "Crispy" every few minutes.

"You're just jealous 'cuz my man succeeds when you have failed!" says Leighlay. "He has me, has a bright future in football, a scholarship almost guaranteed, and a nice Mercedes. And what do you have? Some smooth-brained twink with main-character symptoms and a diesel truck? Please. You have no future with him. You have no future, period. You talentless, shit-poor himbo."

Hayden's fury is slowly dissipating into shame, and a little bit of hurt. I can still remember the hold she had on him, how he couldn't escape her abuse until I came around. The power an abuser has on us is not something easily shaken, and I can see her words affecting him.

I grab his hand again and pull him. "Come on, babe. We don't have to stay here. Fuck them both."

And yet, Hayden doesn't move. He stays there, looking at the infinite expanse of trash and trash-adjacent accessories, and says a single word: "No."

"No, what?" I ask.

"I'm not running away. Not this time."

Before I can ask what he will do, he steps forward, letting go of my hand. "You can insult me all you want, and I don't give a fuck. There's nothing you can say to me that others haven't. But insult my man? You've gone too far. You think you man is hot shit? I'll show you how petty and insignificant you two are, right here, right now."

As the crowd chants "fight, fight, fight" over and over again, I can feel a cold sweat running down my back, all the way to my taint. And yet, I don't sense anger from Hayden. No rage, bad boy fury, or even chef momentary delusion. No, this is defensive, as if his pride is on the line. A hard line where none shall pass, and he will defend it to the end.

"You wanna dance, muchacho?" says Leighlay, her grin even bigger than before. "Then, let's cha-cha. Babe, beat the shit out of him!"

The chants of fighting make an explosive crescendo as the inevitable fight was about to happen: Hayden v Haiden, a fight to the death, or something. But the prospect of a fight was squashed by Hayden, who raises an arm to point at something. I, the crowd, and the pair turn around to see what he's pointing at: A ball game stand, one of those games where you have to toss a ball at a pyramid of cans and knock them down for prizes. Maning the booth is a man in a wife-beater. Pretty much the same man, but this one had a goatee instead of a pure mustache.

Might be the wife-beater man with a painted goatee, to be honest. Who knows!

"You think your man is hot shit? I'll show you how mediocre you both are. Three balls, three tries. If I win, you're gonna leave me and my man alone. You win, I conceded that your man is better than me. You willing to cha-cha?"

"Oh, I'm willing to cha-cha," says Leighlay. "Babe?"

Haiden just stays there, muttering "where puppy?" over and over again. We will take it as a yes.

"Babe, are you sure this is a good idea?" I ask him as we, and the whole mob of people, move toward the booth. "I mean, we can just bail. You don't have to prove anything to me."

"My love, I'm not doing this for you," he says with a tender smile. "I'm doing this for me."

I can't express it in words, but that makes me a little proud of him.

"Three ball, shoot to pyramid, no refund," says the wife-beater-goatee man. You know? It's too long a name now. Let's call him Jeb.

Three plastic balls that somebody clearly stole from a McDonald's ball pit, coated with every disease known to mankind since 1987. Oddly, not the most poisonous thing in this park, by far.

"I think the balls are lighter than the bottles," I comment as I fondle one of Hayden's balls.

On the other side of the stand sits two pyramids of glass bottles, clearly stuck together by glue, and not even a clear glue. No, one of those globs of glue weird kids used to eat in kindergarten and now most of them are doing crack or investing in crypto. Either way, they are lost causes.

"It's not about strength, it's about technique," says Hayden. "And I'm the best ball-handler here, by far."

"You wish!" interrupts Leighlay. "My man can handle balls way better than you."

"Puppies," says Haiden, slowly licking the balls.

I grab Hayden by the collar, pulling him closer. "Whatever happens, I want you to know that I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you, my love," says Hayden, cupping my face with both hands, "but I'm gonna win."

"I know you could win, but this shit is rigged. See the globs of glue?" I say, pointing at the pyramid.

"Don't worry, I got a plan for that," he says.

Hayden takes one bright-orange ball, rubbing it gently with his thumb. Note: Disinfect that hand with sanitizer, ASAP. Parting his legs slightly, he pivots his hips to the right, pulling his right as far as he could. Suddenly, with the speed of lighting, or a relatively fast e-bike, he whips his hand forwards. The ball flies from his loose wrist in a curved angle and hits the top of the pyramid... which doesn't even budge. Not surprising, given that it's all glued together like a tick's asshole, eliciting laughter from the mob around us.

"No prize, too bad," says Jeb, taking another drag of his cigarette.

"I told you, it's rigged," I comment.

But it falls on deaf and beautiful ears. Hayden grabs another ball, this time taking a few steps back. "My love, never tell a jock that something is impossible," he says. "Hey, Andre the dumbass, it's your turn."

Haiden grabs a ball like a marble in his beastly hoofs and flings it with his thumb. The ball shoots out like a bullet, and impacts like one as well, as it leave a clean hole through one of the middle bottles, eliciting gasps from the audience.

And yet, it fails to topple over.

"No prize, too bad."

It's Hayden's second throw. He makes the same movement as before, but right as he's about to throw the ball, he spins in place three times while squatting. The ball flies through the air in a corkscrew motion. It impacts the middle row... but it doesn't bounce. Instead, the ball spins in place like some Jojo Part 7 anime move. The glass starts to glow red with friction heat as the ball shows no sign of stopping. Except when it abruptly stops. And no, even if it was the most flashy shit this side of Dragon Ball GT, the bottles didn't move.

"No prize, too bad."

Hayden approaches me with a smug look on his face. Quite underserved, if I may ask.

"That was underwhelming," I say.

"Oh brother of little faith, just wait and see," says Hayden.

Haiden, on the other hand, grabs the ball and chucks it so hard that the sound barrier breaks for a few seconds. It manages to break a leg from the table, but the bottles remain as stalwart as ever.

"No prize, too bad!"

The crowd is still in anticipation, like a young husband ready for the first night with his young wife. They are ready to burst their excitement load the second there is an ounce of satisfaction. And Hayden is about to give it to them.

In terms of throws, this is the weakest of them all. A lob, really, that hits the top of the pyramid. And yet, the top bottle falls, with a sticky goop on the bottom trailing behind it. Said goop is stuck to the bottom of the bottles on the row below and, with the top row falling, it pulls that row with it, and that row pulls the other row, until every bottle falls from the weight from the last.

The husband analogy seems to be painfully obvious, as the satisfaction doesn't come from some explosive finish, but from a wet, sloppy climax. Also, what the fuck just happened?

"See?" says Hayden with a bad boy smirk. "It's all about technique."

"That explains absolutely nothing!" I say.

"See, I used a special throw to heat up the bottles, and with it, the glue holding things together. Once heated, I just needed to apply some basic physics and let gravity do the rest."

"That still doesn't explain shit!" I say. "You can't just say 'physics' and wave it all away. In order to produce such heat, you have to produce it first. You know what entropy is? It's impossible!"

Hayden gently, but firmly, grabs me by the chin, and I can feel my taint contract. "Baby, I told you, you can't tell a jock that something is impossible. And I believe someone owes me a stuffie?"

Jeb flicks his cigarette away, grabbing a doll from a rack behind him and tossing to Hayden. "You win, very good."

"Take it, sweetie. It's yours," says Hayden.

"Thanks, babe, I guess," I say, grabbing the stuffie. It's a plushie of Bart Simpson... only, it's green, and has no nose, and his hair is not jagged, but curved. "Hey, the fuck is this bootleg shit?"

"No bootleg!" yells Jeb. "That Bard Samson, very American boy. Consume pants. Very fun."

You know what? Whatever. It's a fitting trophy.

"Babe!" yells McKenzie, all the while pulling Haiden's arm. "Do you have some magical entropy-defying jock power as well?"

Those words were too big for poor Haiden's brain, who made his best impression of a mounted singing fish, sans song. "Uh... what?"

"What-ever!" adds the shrill banshee. "Just do what you're trained to do as the superior Jock and beat his ass."

That was better, as a light of realization flashed on his eyes. "Haiden... do as coach says?"

"Yes!" says Leighlay. "Show him what you're made of!"

"Uh, okay. Haiden does that," says the ogre. He grabs the ball, ready to make the last throw... but instead of throwing it at the bottles, he gently lobs it at Hayden, who catches it out of habit.

See, Hayden is a Quarterback, the offensive captain. Haiden, on the other hand, is a Linebacker, the defensive captain. His job is to take down the quarterback. In this case, Hayden. Which he does beautifully. He tackles Hayden at full force, making both of them tumble into the ground.

"Haiden do good, coach?" says Haiden to Leighlay.

"You toss ball, you miss. No prize, too bad!"

There is only one thing left to do to end this shitty fair date, and it is as cliche as they come: The Ferris wheel. Completely made out of plywood, nails, and old gum from beneath some random cafeteria table. And yet, it is the perfect place to be. The sun is setting over the garbage mountains as Jeb and his son are manually cranking the Ferris wheel to move. There's not a single mechanical element here. Even when they are trying to cut costs, they manage to do it in the most inconvenient way.

Here we are, Hayden, body bruised up from the tackle. Me, holding what clearly constitutes a copyright infringement, barely moving as the last rays of sunshine dye out, showing the nascent twilight stars above us.

It's kinda beautiful, really. We are far away from any light pollution, so the sky is mostly clear. Again, clouds of radioactive flies.

I rest my head over Hayden's shoulder, most to his dismay. He must be really sore. "This was a shitty date."

"It was, it was," says Hayden. "And I wouldn't want anyone else but you to enjoy it."

That earns him a quick peck on the lips. "I love you, my sweetie-pie. I'm so proud of you today. You could've gone berserk so many times, but you didn't."

"And neither did you," he says. "I know things have been rocky as of late, but today has shown us that, as long as we are together, we can overcome anything."

As long as we are together... I like how that sounds. Like a romantic promise read between the lines in a moonlit dream. I love this moment. This peace. I would love it if it lasted forever.

Well, it kinda is lasting forever. Like, I don't think we have moved for a while.

I look down to see all the staff(Yes, all seven of them!) running around, packing everything not bolted to the ground, and generally being chaotic. At least ten squad cars pull over the fair, with officers, weapons drawn, getting out of them.

"Freeze!" one of them yells with a megaphone, "you are all under arrest for copyright infringement of a Disney property!"

Well, so much for the Bard Samson thing. And without somebody cranking the wheel, we are left here, stuck. Great.

"What now?" I ask Hayden.

Hayden simply takes off his jacket and drapes it over ourselves like a blanket. "Now, we just enjoy ourselves my love."

"This is the shitties date ever," I say, snuggling against him. "Let's do this again next week."