Six String God

Of Rescue Missions and Dish Water

Scene: Jesse N. Richardson, standing in a dark alleyway of a busy, sprawling city. It was the type of alleyway where one is most likely to find Batman chasing Joker's and his bony butt. The moon light was slight and he was silhouetted against the light of the passing cars on the main street, smoke rising in spirals around him, what smoke exactly one is not certain, like one of those tall, godly creatures in Hollywood. You know the type, six feet and million inches tall, muscle bound, tanned to an Apollo-like shade and with the hint of the perfect stubble. Except maybe Jesse N. Richardson might not exactly fill THAT bill you know... Jesse was six feet and three inches of but he was pale from spending hours inside his room, he was skinny and his muscles wiry. He was dressed in blue jeans, a plain collared t-shirt and Converse high tops, his scraggy hair its usual mess. However, the setting was such that it was like an action scene where Jesse was the super competent hero.

It was a moment straight out from a superhero movie, or maybe one of those old Western movies, where the good guy is chasing the bad guy down the dark alleyway and cornering him for a little painful reconciliation. Except maybe you didn't get dark alleyways in old Westerns, just saloons and dusty roads with gorse heather rolling around and women screaming for dramatic effect while children watch terrified and other men bet on who's going to get the better end of the fight. Yet, Jesse N. Richardson couldn't help but feel awfully important as he walked slowly and deliberately and it might as well be added purposefully, down the dark, half lit alley.

Well this was so until a second floor window opened and down came tumbling dirty dish water onto our Jesse N. Richardson. The dirty dishwater was infused beautifully with garlic chicken, stray parsley and other more disgusting human germs, not to mention chicken bones and bacon rinds. With a momentarily shocked shout, he shook off all the water and rubbish he could and received a "Out of the way asshole!" from the woman who threw the dirty dishwater instead of the expected "Oh I'm so sorry!" which would have been the normal accepted response after such an incident had occurred.

Well, you know that cliché saying... Always expected the unexpected. Even as this flash of thought zipped through Jesse's mind, he couldn't help thinking about the series of mishaps that have made up his life.

His mother gave birth to him while she was nineteen years old and she abandoned him promptly. Jesse had never seen his mother and he knew she was alive, somewhere off. His father raised him with the help of his grandmother until Jesse was four, by which time his father was in a terrible hit and run accident leaving a young Jesse in the care of his very rich and quite eccentric actress grandmother. Jesse grew up in a lap of lavishness but one can never replace parents once they were gone. This was just the simple start of the calamitous life of Jesse Nathaniel Richardson.

Nearing his eighteenth birthday, Jesse had never had a girlfriend. He had never gone on a proper date nor had he hung out with a girl for the pure pleasure of kissing her. No, Jesse spent his time holed up in his huge second floor bedroom, strumming on his guitar and when he did step out of the house, it was to help someone. The night on which our story starts was one such night.

With some solid, masculine dignity for a boy his weight, Jesse N. Richardson rolled back his shirt sleeves and resumed his deliberate, purposeful stride. Step by step, his green Converse high tops silently propelled him forward as he carried on to his goal, his ultimate destiny which awaited him at the end of the alley. The light grew bright and the light grew dim.

The sudden, loud siren like honk coming from a first floor window resulted in Jesse displaying his excellent soprano abilities. With a high pitched scream that would have put Amy Lee to shame, Jesse N. Richardson realized that the honk was from a toy that a small boy was playing with in his room. Taking a deep breath, Jesse regained composure and hitched up his acid-washed, out-of-the-80's denim jeans. He kept walking, taking in the graffiti on the walls, colorfully heralding names and curses like cheeky, shiny strippers, challenging you to stop and stare, glinting beautifully underneath the light. Jesse was usually composed, and he hardly screamed but sudden noises tend to mess with his calm demeanor.

Slowly, Jesse N. Richardson saw his goal. This was the reason why he kept doing what he had to do, proof that his calling was suited for him more than anything. Jesse, in the deepest parts of his heart, badly wanted to be a detective but his grandmother, lenient as she was, did not approve this as it was while doing the very same thing at college that Jesse's father had died. Jesse suppressed his want for mystery because he was a thoughtful child and did not like to make things tense for his only living direct relative.

When he received the frantic call earlier than evening, Jesse had been watching South Park, reflecting on the vagaries of life with tub of ice cream on his lap when his very pro-2005 cell phone screeched and no more than ten minutes later, he was out of the door, to fulfill his destiny as a rescuer. Jesse was ardent and thorough at his job, just as devout as the Pope is to Catholicism and a hit man to murder.

Jesse then saw that his opponent was on the safety of a Dumpster, a few feet off the ground. Jesse N. Richardson began strategizing, planning his moves as to how best take down his opponent. He was not quite close right now as to attack his opponent, but he was planning as he grew closer and closer.. Oh this one was a toughie. He was dark, black as the night, and something about his sleekness suggested to Jesse that this fight was not going to be an easy one. With one final step, Jesse N. Richardson the Cat Rescuer stepped forward to meet his opponent...

... a jet black, swishy tailed, Persian cat named Kibbles.