"Repo Man?"
Scott turned quickly to see a large, barrel chested, red haired man with an untamed beard in his early forties approach him rapidly. The man was determined in his gait. Scott answered, "Yes . . .?
"Ya, I'm the Flying Dutchman," he said hurriedly in a large boom- ing voice. "Welcome." He vigorously shook Scott's hand with a wide smile hidden behind the bushy red face. "You enjoyed Am- sterdam last night, ya?" He expected a positive answer. Sex was no crime here.
"Well," Scott blushed. "I must say it was a unique experience," he said carefully so as not to offend Holland's proud hosts. "But I think the Spook had more fun than I did."
The Flying Dutchman's hand went limp. "Spook? Did you say
Spook?" His astonishment was clear.
"Yeah, why?" Scott asked.
"The Spook? Here? No one has seen him in years."
"Yeah, well he's alive and well and screwing his brains out with three of Amsterdam's finest," Scott said with amusement. "What's the big deal?"
"The Spook, ya this is goot," the Flying Dutchman said clapping his hands together with approval. "He was the greatest phreak of his day. He retired years ago, and has only been seen once or two times maybe. He is a legend."
"A phreak?"