( a very short story with a bit of tongue-in-cheek fun....  ;)

By Terry/”Irish”


(This was inspired by Nancy C. during a recent AOL chat on Sunday night. Hope it meets the requirements, Nancy.  It’s also my “revenge” for Scott’s [a/k/a Wall Fall Boy/Stunt Pup] “Wha…?” post and commentary on Walker vs. the “real world.”  LOL!)

Walker sat at his desk, head stuffed and swimming, eyes watering, nose running and with a blazing headache.  He’d just gotten back from an armed robbery call at a bank in the Metroplex and it hadn’t gone well for him.  He’d felt like hell and he’d had to rely on Trivette to drive.  He hated letting Jimmy drive the truck and, sure enough, pursuit had not resulted in the bad guys getting caught and appropriately ass-kicked.  Walker had recognized one of the perps as an underemployed stunt performer who jumped from gig to gig in the Dallas area.  He’d taken the kid down in a previous low-level bust two or three years ago and thrown him over a wall, puttin’ a serious hurt on the punk.  “What was that kid’s name?” thought Walker. “Scott something….?”  Walker couldn’t recall, but he was sure irritated that he missed kicking the kid’s rear a second time.  Dang shame Jimmy couldn’t drive the truck worth a polecat in a henhouse, as C.D. would have said.  So the perps got away and Walker was fuming from the ribbing he’d taken from the other Rangers.  On top of that he’d rounded the corner from the elevator and smacked right into Mary, one of the assistants from the D.A.’s office who happened to have Cerebral Palsy.  He’d startled her so badly she’d used her walker as a semi-defensive weapon and both his shins were starting to turn black & blue, not to mention Mary had verbally lit into him for running into her for the third time that week!  “I should never have encouraged her to take martial arts.  Who knew she’d make it all the way to a blue belt?” mumbled Walker to himself.  He didn’t mean it of course.  It was just that his shins were aching like crazy and he was in a really bad mood.         

Jimmy cleared his throat and took the chance his partner wouldn’t half-kill him for talking to him. “Uh, Walker, you look like death warmed over, man.  I mean, it’s obvious you’ve caught the flu.  Half the Company has it.  Why don’t you go home?”  “ Shut up, Trivette, you no-good truck abuser.  I’m fine,” snarled the pissed off senior partner.  Never having heard his partner talk to him quite that way before, Trivette was actually stunned into shutting up.

“No, you’re not “fine,” came the reply from the gorgeous and very sexy blond that sashayed through the door and headed towards her husband’s desk.  Dressed in a very conservative grey suit, with the hemline actually hovering around her knees for once, Alex Cahill-Walker (note to readers: or Alex Cahill, or Alex Walker, choose whichever name is your personal preference/favorite and insert here) went around the desk to stand by Walker’s side.  Checking his forehead she announced flatly, “You have a temperature of at least 101, probably higher.  Go home and get to bed!  You’re sick as a dog, darling.”

“Jeez,” Alex, QUIT IT!”  “It’s embawassing to have my wife hodering oder me ad da office.  (Which statement earned him “THE LOOK.”) “Ok, ok, all right aldeady, I’ll doh home.”  “I’m nod detting anyting done here anyday.”   The congestion from the flu was really starting to kick in and Walker was beginning to sound like a cranky two year old with a lisp.

Ten minutes later, Walker came back in the room.  Trivette raised a quizzical eyebrow.  “Don’t say anyding Trivette.  Not a dang ding.  THE DAMN TWUCK won’  shtart!!!!”  Jimmy just sat and smirked.


Feverish and miserable, Walker tossed and turned in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position in which to sleep.  His lovely bride was resting peacefully, looking like a proverbial angel as she lay there in the moonkissed shadows.  “Dang, why doesn’t SHE ever get sick?” thought Walker. “Come to think of it, how come she never even has a hair out of place?”  “I must remember to ask her about that,” he ruminated as his body finally gave in and drifted into restless repose.

SHHHHNORRRRRKKKK, SHHHHHNEEEEH, SHHHHHHNOOORRRKKK, SHHHHNEEEEH, WAH, WAH, SHHHHHHNOORRRKK, SHHHHHNEEEEHHH............Alex awoke with a jolt.  “What in world is that?”  Looking over to her husband, Alex saw that he was flat on his back, with his mouth open, snoring at a decibel level guaranteed to compete with the engine of a Boeing 757.  Alex nudged him lightly, hoping to make him turn over and cut off the caterwauling.  Failing that, she placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed.  The sensation finally woke her noisy cowboy who, feeling Alex’s hand on his thigh, shook his head and stated firmly, “Jeez Alex, I wuv you doo, bud nod donight dear, I HAVE A HEADACHE!”

(I now return you to your regularly scheduled Walkerworld, “where all the men are handsome, all the wimin’ are goodlookin’ and all the children are above average...”  Said with apologies to Garrison Keillor and Prairie Home Companion).

Author’s note:  one of our friends on AOL is a young lady named Mary, who does indeed participate in the Martial Arts using a walker.  I used her name with her kind permission.  She’s shown us there are few limits to the power of the human spirit.  GO BLUESTER!!!

(All the usual disclaimers and legal stuff).