This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.
“Am I testing you, Racki? I will admit, it would be nice if someone were to attack the convoy and I were given the chance to annihilate them. However, that was not my intention, no. The Age of Danger has passed this town by and all threats have long ago been neutralized. I spoke loosely just now and revealed these things to you because I have no fear of the enemy and I invite them to essay my martial valor, challenge them to check my undelaying advance and by so doing display my unquestioned reverence for our Mayor. I once took down a bandit who thought he’d jump the fence and steal pears from His Honor’s private orchard, but that’s all my service has required so far.”
Distantly, Jim Riley scratched his chin and looked like he was thinking something really deep. “I had a nightmare last night,” he said.
“A nightmare.”
“There was a big battle. Everybody was dying. A battle right here in Stone Creek.”
“So what was the nightmare, Jim?”
“I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there to protect the Mayor and he died.”
“That’s some dream.”
“And our waking world is not at all unlike it. Why are you here instead of Mr. Baptist?”
“I was wondering when you were going to get around to asking me that. You see, I’m doing him a favor.” I saw a look of escalating concern ratcheting up on him. “No way should Hannibal have to bring a stuffed bear over here. Hannibal doesn’t even know I’m over here helping him score points with Salome with this stuffed bear.”
“You’re mistaken, Racki,” he said. “Stuffed bears have no effect on that frosty lass.”
I shrugged my shoulders noncommittally. “Think she’ll like this boutonniere? The flowers the homo put in look pretty girly. Girls dig the stuff that homos do.”
“The cyclamen represents resignation and loss, Racki.”
“I see,” I muttered. “I wasn’t really paying attention when the shop fairy was putting it together and this is what happens. I plan on paying that clever man a second visit, but flower meanings probably aren’t Hannibal’s strong suit so maybe not today. But definitely tomorrow. That’s what you get when you mess with the Player Slayer.”
“It’s quite obvious you’re sweet on Hannibal,” he stated.
“That was a mistake.” My voice was iron. It was a nice day, and now I was feeling fighty. “Things were going so well here. What I’m saying, is say good-bye to your teeth.”
That old sweet rush I get in my belly before the swinging starts showed up. “Careful,” he said.
“Five minutes from now you might have to start drinking all your meals through a straw.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
That was Salome, wearing an olive sundress and thumbing the shoulder strap of her purse. My fists were clenched and my rage-coil was ready to spring, but I don’t settle accounts while I’m doing people favors. Salome took the bag, looked inside, and handed it off to Jim Riley. “Go ahead and put the flower in the refrigerator, Jim.”
For the next installment, click here.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
I, Racki (Part XI)
This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.
“My boss is a great man. He paid the costs and told me that if I came back alive that I’d always have a job in Stone Creek. A man like that is a man to whom you can give over right and wrong and makes it easy for you to achieve the reputation of a faithful retainer.”
“Are we talking about the same Mayor Bruce Wilson?”
“You are a careless and insincere boy, but I refuse to allow you to miss this opportunity because of your youthful insolence. I too at your age was full of undisciplined vigor and casual resolution. That shallow arrogance of yours may serve you well at your present station, but I remind you that there is life beyond high school. The time is coming and coming fast when sides must be taken.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Listen to me. Your life is slipping away. Your old ways must be banished into the dark corners of the earth and you must begin to see the world with eight eyes. As I look at you I see the recklessness of my own youth and even now I sense the desperation and insanity that is the mark of a great servant. But you are rude. So rude. Almost intolerably rude.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” I deadpanned. “I think you’re supposed to go inside and tell Salome I’m here.”
“Salome will come down when she wants to. She will be leaving shortly with young Petra Plascak to go pick up her dress at the alterations shop and perhaps pick up some jewelry. Likely you have no more than ten minutes to converse with her before we set out.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Security, don’t you think you shouldn’t be telling me all that?”
Riley wet his finger and touched his earlobe. “Twenty minutes on 16 going into Jonestown will be when we are most vulnerable. The Mayor has chosen me to head the security detail for both the dress trip and the Prom tonight because I take to an enemy on the battlefield as a hawk takes to a bird.”
“Is there… a reason you’re saying all this to me?”
“I get out of the car first, then the girls, and they go into the dress shop that’s been cleared out ahead of time. The other two cars block off traffic on Van Jones Street and detour any pedestrians that try to use the sidewalk. And if you’re wondering, we are authorized to use deadly force.”
Riley mumbled into his lapel once more and glanced down the driveway. For a moment I thought I saw Salome through the foyer window, but I couldn’t be sure. “Are you testing me… trying to see if I’ll leak this info?”
For the next installment, click here.
“My boss is a great man. He paid the costs and told me that if I came back alive that I’d always have a job in Stone Creek. A man like that is a man to whom you can give over right and wrong and makes it easy for you to achieve the reputation of a faithful retainer.”
“Are we talking about the same Mayor Bruce Wilson?”
“You are a careless and insincere boy, but I refuse to allow you to miss this opportunity because of your youthful insolence. I too at your age was full of undisciplined vigor and casual resolution. That shallow arrogance of yours may serve you well at your present station, but I remind you that there is life beyond high school. The time is coming and coming fast when sides must be taken.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Listen to me. Your life is slipping away. Your old ways must be banished into the dark corners of the earth and you must begin to see the world with eight eyes. As I look at you I see the recklessness of my own youth and even now I sense the desperation and insanity that is the mark of a great servant. But you are rude. So rude. Almost intolerably rude.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,” I deadpanned. “I think you’re supposed to go inside and tell Salome I’m here.”
“Salome will come down when she wants to. She will be leaving shortly with young Petra Plascak to go pick up her dress at the alterations shop and perhaps pick up some jewelry. Likely you have no more than ten minutes to converse with her before we set out.”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Security, don’t you think you shouldn’t be telling me all that?”
Riley wet his finger and touched his earlobe. “Twenty minutes on 16 going into Jonestown will be when we are most vulnerable. The Mayor has chosen me to head the security detail for both the dress trip and the Prom tonight because I take to an enemy on the battlefield as a hawk takes to a bird.”
“Is there… a reason you’re saying all this to me?”
“I get out of the car first, then the girls, and they go into the dress shop that’s been cleared out ahead of time. The other two cars block off traffic on Van Jones Street and detour any pedestrians that try to use the sidewalk. And if you’re wondering, we are authorized to use deadly force.”
Riley mumbled into his lapel once more and glanced down the driveway. For a moment I thought I saw Salome through the foyer window, but I couldn’t be sure. “Are you testing me… trying to see if I’ll leak this info?”
For the next installment, click here.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
I, Racki (Part X)
This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.
The paper bag I was carrying was dumped out by the agent at the door and I watched as he violently shook and then tossed aside each article when he was satisfied it was harmless. The agent’s name was Jim Riley and I tried to figure out how I knew that until I remembered that he went to school with my older brother and after that had kind of dropped off the face of the earth.
Now he was mumbling something into his collar. He was beefier than I remembered him, the look of a stone cold killer. He straightened his tie and crossed his hands in front of him while never taking his eyes off me as I put everything back into the bag. “How have you been, Racki?”
“Shot a four-over this morning.”
“That’s nice. How many putts?”
“Do you really care?”
“No.”
“Nineteen then,” I said.
“I guess that’s okay.”
“I guess you want to know why I’m here.”
“I already know.”
“A delivery.”
“Right.”
“Jim,” I said, “I’m totally surprised, seeing you here. I just assumed you were dead all this time.”
“Really?”
“What happened to you after you graduated?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he told me.
“I’m from Stone Creek, Jim.”
“You’re from Stone Creek, pal, and I am, too. I just barely graduated from high school. I was totally clueless on what to do next. I’m not college material, I don’t want to be college material, and just the thought of being around college material makes me very hostile in my brain. I may not know the difference between Rimsky-Korsakov and Kolmogorov-Smirnov, but I just put a new racing suspension on my Mitsubishi and I have an all-access pass to the Champagne Room at the Red Windmill.”
“Damn, how do I get in on this action?”
“Get the Mayor to hook you up.”
“Is there a lot you have to do, to get this job?”
“Lots. I went through six years of hell. The easy part was five years in the French Foreign Legion marching all over Central Africa after which I returned to go to a special school no one knows about in the mountains of Virginia. That was the hard part. Not everybody survives the course, if you know what I mean, and the people who live through it get hired by important people who need nasty things done quietly like the government and big business, or people with lots of enemies, and the money to make them go away.”
“What, Jim? Say that again. I wasn’t listening.”
For the next installment, click here.
The paper bag I was carrying was dumped out by the agent at the door and I watched as he violently shook and then tossed aside each article when he was satisfied it was harmless. The agent’s name was Jim Riley and I tried to figure out how I knew that until I remembered that he went to school with my older brother and after that had kind of dropped off the face of the earth.
Now he was mumbling something into his collar. He was beefier than I remembered him, the look of a stone cold killer. He straightened his tie and crossed his hands in front of him while never taking his eyes off me as I put everything back into the bag. “How have you been, Racki?”
“Shot a four-over this morning.”
“That’s nice. How many putts?”
“Do you really care?”
“No.”
“Nineteen then,” I said.
“I guess that’s okay.”
“I guess you want to know why I’m here.”
“I already know.”
“A delivery.”
“Right.”
“Jim,” I said, “I’m totally surprised, seeing you here. I just assumed you were dead all this time.”
“Really?”
“What happened to you after you graduated?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he told me.
“I’m from Stone Creek, Jim.”
“You’re from Stone Creek, pal, and I am, too. I just barely graduated from high school. I was totally clueless on what to do next. I’m not college material, I don’t want to be college material, and just the thought of being around college material makes me very hostile in my brain. I may not know the difference between Rimsky-Korsakov and Kolmogorov-Smirnov, but I just put a new racing suspension on my Mitsubishi and I have an all-access pass to the Champagne Room at the Red Windmill.”
“Damn, how do I get in on this action?”
“Get the Mayor to hook you up.”
“Is there a lot you have to do, to get this job?”
“Lots. I went through six years of hell. The easy part was five years in the French Foreign Legion marching all over Central Africa after which I returned to go to a special school no one knows about in the mountains of Virginia. That was the hard part. Not everybody survives the course, if you know what I mean, and the people who live through it get hired by important people who need nasty things done quietly like the government and big business, or people with lots of enemies, and the money to make them go away.”
“What, Jim? Say that again. I wasn’t listening.”
For the next installment, click here.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
I, Racki (Part IX)
This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.
“Why do you want to talk to her?”
“Courtesy,” I said. “Plans change.”
“Meaning?”
“Going to the Prom means the dress shop, the hair salon, the tanning bed. Not going to the Prom means renting movies, baking cookies, inviting your fat friends over.”
“You’re dumping her the day of Prom, Racki?”
I finished my Mr. Pibb. I put the can on the floor and stomped it flat with my heel with a noise that startled Randy. Part of him was thinking about Jailey and her hurt feelings. Most of him was probably thinking about how he was going to use these hurt feelings to get another part of him into part of Jailey.
I have a sense about these things. I said, “It’s none of your business, but I was able to upgrade.” I kicked the can into a corner. “Can you honestly say you’d do any different?”
“That’s just wrong, buddy.”
“I’m not your buddy. And you didn’t answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“But you fired her.” I gave him my trademark one-finger salute and left the store in a much better mood. I stood out there on the sunny sidewalk watching the race and blocking traffic, then turned my head right as Mosley’s tire clipped a hay bale and he went spaceborn. There was a gasp from the gallery and a collective shudder when the hard earth took him back. Then I watched the Steve Brinkle and a group of men in fireproof suits and the medic on loan from the Clinic run down Main Street toward the wreck with fire extinguishers and it occurred to me that there probably wouldn’t be a line at the pork fritter stand if I went now.
* * *
I was getting a little pissed. There is a limit to how far a guy should be expected to go out of his way for something like this and if Jailey didn’t want to be found then she was just going to have to find out when I didn’t pick her up tonight. Maybe after that, her family would go buy a damn answering machine. But I had things to do, and I was going to do them.
In the nineteenth century a robber baron named Samuel “Railroad Spike” Benjamin mapped out the town of Stone Creek and built a mansion, about a mile east of the town, a blocky Georgian Revival set back in a foresty parcel of land over by where the golf course would eventually be, a haven of brick and symmetry with a balustraded deck on top so he could see his enemies coming.
It was big. I was impressed. I saw the special on TV, the occasional picture, loose talk around Tom’s Garage, and the interrogation transcripts of that nutcase bum Elmore “Molar” Jones, but until this very day I had yet to see Salome Wilson’s house in person. There was a squad of soldiers in black SWAT gear up on the roof training their weapons on me as I walked up to the portico as well as a mounted .50 caliber machine gun just in case I had been thinking about blowing the gate with my Monte Carlo.
For the next installment, click here.
“Why do you want to talk to her?”
“Courtesy,” I said. “Plans change.”
“Meaning?”
“Going to the Prom means the dress shop, the hair salon, the tanning bed. Not going to the Prom means renting movies, baking cookies, inviting your fat friends over.”
“You’re dumping her the day of Prom, Racki?”
I finished my Mr. Pibb. I put the can on the floor and stomped it flat with my heel with a noise that startled Randy. Part of him was thinking about Jailey and her hurt feelings. Most of him was probably thinking about how he was going to use these hurt feelings to get another part of him into part of Jailey.
I have a sense about these things. I said, “It’s none of your business, but I was able to upgrade.” I kicked the can into a corner. “Can you honestly say you’d do any different?”
“That’s just wrong, buddy.”
“I’m not your buddy. And you didn’t answer me.”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“But you fired her.” I gave him my trademark one-finger salute and left the store in a much better mood. I stood out there on the sunny sidewalk watching the race and blocking traffic, then turned my head right as Mosley’s tire clipped a hay bale and he went spaceborn. There was a gasp from the gallery and a collective shudder when the hard earth took him back. Then I watched the Steve Brinkle and a group of men in fireproof suits and the medic on loan from the Clinic run down Main Street toward the wreck with fire extinguishers and it occurred to me that there probably wouldn’t be a line at the pork fritter stand if I went now.
* * *
I was getting a little pissed. There is a limit to how far a guy should be expected to go out of his way for something like this and if Jailey didn’t want to be found then she was just going to have to find out when I didn’t pick her up tonight. Maybe after that, her family would go buy a damn answering machine. But I had things to do, and I was going to do them.
In the nineteenth century a robber baron named Samuel “Railroad Spike” Benjamin mapped out the town of Stone Creek and built a mansion, about a mile east of the town, a blocky Georgian Revival set back in a foresty parcel of land over by where the golf course would eventually be, a haven of brick and symmetry with a balustraded deck on top so he could see his enemies coming.
It was big. I was impressed. I saw the special on TV, the occasional picture, loose talk around Tom’s Garage, and the interrogation transcripts of that nutcase bum Elmore “Molar” Jones, but until this very day I had yet to see Salome Wilson’s house in person. There was a squad of soldiers in black SWAT gear up on the roof training their weapons on me as I walked up to the portico as well as a mounted .50 caliber machine gun just in case I had been thinking about blowing the gate with my Monte Carlo.
For the next installment, click here.
Monday, August 3, 2009
I, Racki (Part VIII)
This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.
He flustered.
“You need to stop being cute and answer me. If my jumping over the counter and stuffing your head into a canister of mint chocolate chip is a fate you would like to avoid then you will answer my question with a quickness.” I bowed my head, looked over my glasses, and went on. “I got a lot to do today. Washing my car. Cleaning my clubs. Renting a tux. Buying a boutonniere, shaving, going to the bank, like they say pimping ain’t easy. That’s the kind of day I got in front of me and here you are being cute.”
“What did you want again?”
I blinked a couple of times, then said, “Jailey Hrcz.”
“Where in the world is Jailey Hrcz?”
“That’s why I’ve been wasting my time in this fly strip.”
His mouth went shut, like he was guarding some damn state secret. I jumped in again and said, “Out with it, ass hat.”
“I fired her fifteen minutes ago.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.” He had scooped up the change and was now funneling it into his pants pocket. “Her priorities were all out of whack.”
I said nothing.
“She just took off.” I began to see where he was going with this. What a jackass. “To go do her hair.”
“For the Prom. And you fired her.”
“Yep. Left the store empty.”
“Okay.”
“We could have been cleaned out.” He had mistaken the look on my face for concern and said, “She agreed to come in. I never said how long it was going to be. She should have assumed it was going to be all day and canceled her plans accordingly.”
He was getting my Mr. Pibb so I didn’t leave. When he turned back to the counter he said, “She’s a great girl, but she’s been really flaky lately and I can’t afford unreliable help what with the summer months coming up. There are things more important than high school dances, and as her boyfriend you really need to set her straight on that.”
“I’m not her boyfriend,” I said back.
“She certainly seems to think you are, Racki.”
“That’s her problem.”
“Everyday she’s in here she talks about what a great guy you are. She won’t let anyone say anything bad about you despite the fact there seems to be an awful lot of bad things to day.”
“What do you care?”
He took a paper towel and started wiping off the counter, a nervous tic for soda jerks everywhere. After he finished ruminating on whatever was taking up space in his brain he said, “As her boss and friend, I only have her best welfare at heart.”
“You want to bang her.”
“What—what are you doing with her, Racki?” he asked roughly and I might add rather impertinently.
“Not the kind of things you’d like to, looks like.”
For the next installment, click here.
He flustered.
“You need to stop being cute and answer me. If my jumping over the counter and stuffing your head into a canister of mint chocolate chip is a fate you would like to avoid then you will answer my question with a quickness.” I bowed my head, looked over my glasses, and went on. “I got a lot to do today. Washing my car. Cleaning my clubs. Renting a tux. Buying a boutonniere, shaving, going to the bank, like they say pimping ain’t easy. That’s the kind of day I got in front of me and here you are being cute.”
“What did you want again?”
I blinked a couple of times, then said, “Jailey Hrcz.”
“Where in the world is Jailey Hrcz?”
“That’s why I’ve been wasting my time in this fly strip.”
His mouth went shut, like he was guarding some damn state secret. I jumped in again and said, “Out with it, ass hat.”
“I fired her fifteen minutes ago.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.” He had scooped up the change and was now funneling it into his pants pocket. “Her priorities were all out of whack.”
I said nothing.
“She just took off.” I began to see where he was going with this. What a jackass. “To go do her hair.”
“For the Prom. And you fired her.”
“Yep. Left the store empty.”
“Okay.”
“We could have been cleaned out.” He had mistaken the look on my face for concern and said, “She agreed to come in. I never said how long it was going to be. She should have assumed it was going to be all day and canceled her plans accordingly.”
He was getting my Mr. Pibb so I didn’t leave. When he turned back to the counter he said, “She’s a great girl, but she’s been really flaky lately and I can’t afford unreliable help what with the summer months coming up. There are things more important than high school dances, and as her boyfriend you really need to set her straight on that.”
“I’m not her boyfriend,” I said back.
“She certainly seems to think you are, Racki.”
“That’s her problem.”
“Everyday she’s in here she talks about what a great guy you are. She won’t let anyone say anything bad about you despite the fact there seems to be an awful lot of bad things to day.”
“What do you care?”
He took a paper towel and started wiping off the counter, a nervous tic for soda jerks everywhere. After he finished ruminating on whatever was taking up space in his brain he said, “As her boss and friend, I only have her best welfare at heart.”
“You want to bang her.”
“What—what are you doing with her, Racki?” he asked roughly and I might add rather impertinently.
“Not the kind of things you’d like to, looks like.”
For the next installment, click here.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
I, Racki (Part VII)
This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.
Another lap had been hung up on the lap counter outside the Stone Creek Library when I walked back and it showed the race was nearing its halfway point. Lena Binks, newly elected Chairman of the Women’s Auxiliary, announced the leaders from the PA and media center on the flatbed near the pits in the lot across from Tom’s Garage, and it came as no surprise that insurance salesman Moseph Mosley had led most of the race considering Steve Brinkle, the town’s mechanic and a onetime ex-NASCAR driver, was the head of his pit crew.
I walked into the Hasty Tasty Freeze and it was a cave compared to how bright it was outside. The narrowness of the shop made it seem like someone’s closet and I about overturned a table getting to the back. I was surprised to see Randy Gnoll and his Brillo pad haircut working the counter. He had the wooden smile and pronounced jaw of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Even though he was smiling at the customers you could tell he was put out.
I looked over the melting buckets of ice cream.
“Where’s your paper hat?” I asked him.
He gave me a smile sizzling with acid and asked me if I wanted to order something.
“I don’t want any of your crappy ice cream, Randy. I’d probably get mad cow from it. Where’s Jailey?”
“You need to talk to her?” he said. This man was brilliant, no doubt about it.
I rapped my knuckles on the counter and looked out toward the street. Go-karts whizzed by. “Randy?”
“Yeah.”
“I have to tell you you’re being an ass clown,” I said. Before he could talk I said, “It’s a simple question. I thought she said she was working the festival.”
“Maybe she was,” he said enigmatically. “Maybe she wasn’t.”
“I’m guessing you’ve never gotten laid, Randy.”
“Buy something or leave.”
“Alright then. There’s no need for you to be rude. After all, I’m a customer and according to the first law of customer relations the customer is always right. So I’m right when I say you’re an ass clown.” I reached over and dumped the leave-a-penny-take-a-penny tray onto the counter. “Here, get me a Mr. Pibb out of the fridge. I want one of the cold ones in the back.”
“What the…!”
“How you like them apples?”
For the next installment, click here.
Another lap had been hung up on the lap counter outside the Stone Creek Library when I walked back and it showed the race was nearing its halfway point. Lena Binks, newly elected Chairman of the Women’s Auxiliary, announced the leaders from the PA and media center on the flatbed near the pits in the lot across from Tom’s Garage, and it came as no surprise that insurance salesman Moseph Mosley had led most of the race considering Steve Brinkle, the town’s mechanic and a onetime ex-NASCAR driver, was the head of his pit crew.
I walked into the Hasty Tasty Freeze and it was a cave compared to how bright it was outside. The narrowness of the shop made it seem like someone’s closet and I about overturned a table getting to the back. I was surprised to see Randy Gnoll and his Brillo pad haircut working the counter. He had the wooden smile and pronounced jaw of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Even though he was smiling at the customers you could tell he was put out.
I looked over the melting buckets of ice cream.
“Where’s your paper hat?” I asked him.
He gave me a smile sizzling with acid and asked me if I wanted to order something.
“I don’t want any of your crappy ice cream, Randy. I’d probably get mad cow from it. Where’s Jailey?”
“You need to talk to her?” he said. This man was brilliant, no doubt about it.
I rapped my knuckles on the counter and looked out toward the street. Go-karts whizzed by. “Randy?”
“Yeah.”
“I have to tell you you’re being an ass clown,” I said. Before he could talk I said, “It’s a simple question. I thought she said she was working the festival.”
“Maybe she was,” he said enigmatically. “Maybe she wasn’t.”
“I’m guessing you’ve never gotten laid, Randy.”
“Buy something or leave.”
“Alright then. There’s no need for you to be rude. After all, I’m a customer and according to the first law of customer relations the customer is always right. So I’m right when I say you’re an ass clown.” I reached over and dumped the leave-a-penny-take-a-penny tray onto the counter. “Here, get me a Mr. Pibb out of the fridge. I want one of the cold ones in the back.”
“What the…!”
“How you like them apples?”
For the next installment, click here.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
I, Racki (Part VI)
This is a continuation. To start from the beginning, click here.
I must have been thinking about something else.
“What? Oh, I gave up my old look for something a little less Muncie and a little more Manhattan like Hannibal puts it. Before I was captain of the golf team I wouldn’t have cared. Screw anyone who makes fun of my clothes, you know? Then Hannibal steps down as captain to concentrate on his game and I get the job, but he said I needed to look the part so the beret and jeans jacket had to go…it’s a shame, I miss wearing them.”
Simon was desperate for eye contact from anyone. “Please…help me!”
“Shut up.”
Simon was trying to twist out of our grip, but Officer Grout pistol-whipped him into unconsciousness and after that he was a lot easier to transport. “Good night, precious.” He put his pistol back in his holster and looked at his watch. He hoisted the boy’s body up into a fireman’s carry, shrugged him into a better position, and gave me a genial nod. “Thanks for your help, I can get him from here, Racki.”
For the next installment, click here.
I must have been thinking about something else.
“What? Oh, I gave up my old look for something a little less Muncie and a little more Manhattan like Hannibal puts it. Before I was captain of the golf team I wouldn’t have cared. Screw anyone who makes fun of my clothes, you know? Then Hannibal steps down as captain to concentrate on his game and I get the job, but he said I needed to look the part so the beret and jeans jacket had to go…it’s a shame, I miss wearing them.”
Simon was desperate for eye contact from anyone. “Please…help me!”
“Shut up.”
Simon was trying to twist out of our grip, but Officer Grout pistol-whipped him into unconsciousness and after that he was a lot easier to transport. “Good night, precious.” He put his pistol back in his holster and looked at his watch. He hoisted the boy’s body up into a fireman’s carry, shrugged him into a better position, and gave me a genial nod. “Thanks for your help, I can get him from here, Racki.”
For the next installment, click here.
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