The Amazing Adventures of Miss Ariana Okata

Uh-Oh

While we were rolling around on his bed of water, one of which I hadn't encountered since the early 80s, I noticed a trophy sitting on his bedside table. Managing somehow to roll our two bodies a wee bit closer to the table, I realized the trophy was engraved with the words:

2015 French Lover of the Year

So he hadn't been lying after all! I couldn't believe it. I will, however, add that it looked suspiciously like one of those trophies you can order out of the TV Guide, from a P.O. Box address in Guelph, Ontario.

While in the heat of heaving-bosomed passion, most of it fake, I also managed to pry a few other interesting things out of Jacques, which I shall list here:

1) He is not really French, but of Scottish and Greek extraction;

2) Was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey;

3) Does not really speak with a European accent, but learned to imitate one by watching old Peter Sellers Pink Panther movies. It's his fave fake accent because, as he puts it, "Zee ladies love eet;"

4) His favourite food is pizza with anchovies; and

5) He is not really a geologist but does have a trade school auto mechanic certificate.

Seeing as he'd revealed that he was really from New Jersey, thereafter, he dropped the French accent. As it was very important to keep him talking, in order to achieve my objective of obtaining a full confession, I told him that I would also drop my own fake accent and that I was switching my programming to a Canadian one because, after all, we were in Canada. To be frank, speaking with a fake Japanese accent was simply exhausting.

While Jacques resumed nibbling on my ear, I gave Daniel, who was now peering through the bedroom floor-to-ceiling window, a big thumbs up, which he returned. But I knew it wasn't enough.

"How about those Canucks?" was all I could think of to stall Jacques' primal longings, in the hopes of diverting him just enough to extract a confession so we could all go home. All he gave was a muffled noise of some kind, so I repeated my question, louder. He paused and pulled back slightly.

"What da hell you talkin' about? What're Canucks?"

"You know, the Vancouver Canucks. Our NHL team. The one Steve Nash's brother-in-law plays on."

His expression indicated he still didn't have a clue what I was talking about.

"You're not from around here, are you?" I quipped.

"No, I'm not. I already told you dat. You talk too much for a robot. Shut up."

And with that, he plunged back into my neckline, moving towards my partially unzipped water bra cleavage below. I had to think fast again and figure out a way to extract a confession.

"Uh, what's the rush. My favourite foreplay is talk, so let's do some more of that first."

He pulled back again and gave me a look verging on one of his famous now-fake European glares.

"Look, Sukiyaki, I've got it going on here," he chided, indicating his pelvic region, 'So let's just cut the chit chat and get it on. You're a robot so you have to do what I tell you. Lie back and shut up already!"

So the real Jacques was being revealed. Not so soft, fuzzy and genteel, but a bit of an asshole. I glanced over at the window; Daniel was peering inside, shielding the glass with both hands, trying to see what was happening.

Then I heard his voice in my earpiece.

"That's it, I'm sending my men in."

I shook my head insistently.