Slap From the Past
“Well,” asked Detective Pine as he narrowed his eyes upon me, lips still pressed into a tight frown, bushy mustache on full alert. “You all care to ‘splain further?”
Like I have a choice...
“Detective?” the multiline telephone crackled with a gravelly, female voice saving me from the inevitable but unable to save me from my twitchy nerves as my booted leg sprang forward, banging into his metal desk which shifted me sideways on that uncomfortable, fake leather chair. I hung on for dear life. Brent flashed me a frown. Well, at least the butt tingling managed to stop as I recouped my senses in time for the crackling voice to say to Brent, “Wife on line two.”
Oh hello--a wife?
This time, I leaned forward in the chair, gripped its seat, boots firmly planted to keep my balance as my eyes zoomed in on Brent’s, pudgy left ring finger. How in the hell did I miss that? Sure enough, Brent was married. I should be less surprised, but surprisingly, I wasn’t. He wasn’t gay, he wasn’t the type of person to live alone either, and I’m certain that after college, he never moved back in with his father. Sure, we dated back in high school until... All the same, I was surprised he had up and got himself hitched. Sorry bastard.
“’scuse me,” he said clearing his throat before he picked up the receiver and stabbed a finger at the blinking numbered, button. “Sally, I’m...”
Sally? The name sounded familiar but equally unfamiliar as I stared on, mouth catching flies. My thoughts did a tunnel vision version of a very claustrophobic roller coaster ride when it finally came up with a face to place to the name, Sally...Sally...Sally Valentine? Sally the valley from third period trig? Sally the valley who confided in me that she had a crush on Brent...that Sally?
Noooooo...
“Uh, hey puddin'...nope...yeah, she’s here...yep, 'bout done...sure can, lis’en, I’ll call when I’m headin' out. Me too,” he glanced at me curtly then turned slightly away to nearly whisper the last, “Later-gater.”
I think I’m being punked. Yeah, that must be it because being punked is the only explanation I can come up with for my days' endless turn of events. What other explanation can there be? Yep, I am being punked.
“As I was sayin’, Dodge,” his stoic expression returned after disconnecting the call with his wife. However, I did notice a slight blush to his plump cheeks. “I need to understand it, all-it. Not just the bits you all keen on glossin' over and leavin’ the rest for them buzzards to pick over.”
I giggled. I couldn’t help it. Brent has a slick way with the English language. He is assuredly a man born and raised Boolee.
He gave me the stink eye.
Therefore, I shifted gears, scooted forward on the chair and into a slouch, and then loosely crossed my arms and legs as casually-as-you-please. “So... you and Sally Valentine...” I wiggled my eyebrows, expectant to hear more. Color me intrigued.
Brent deadpanned. He was good at that blank expression, even better at it than Newbie. Probably was the one to train Newbie and the rest of the Wannabes how to show no hint of emotion. Just my luck, though because he refused to ‘spill the beans’, keeping the goods on his private life locked down tighter than a prison riot. So much for our second-hand past, because I was hoping to bag my own little nest egg of gossip about how he tied the knot with Sally. My smile weaned just a bit.
He cleared his throat. “Like I said--dang it, now what?” he cried, shooting a glance over my right shoulder that felt like a dragon's vengeance.
“Sorry to bust in here like this--well I’ll be whooper-jawed--is that Dodge? Harley Dodge?”
That’s my name, don’t wear it inside out.
I turned to see the source of my sudden shadow and craned my neck back to glance into the face belonging to a six-foot-two, rock-solid, mountain of a man in full Wannabe, blue and grey uniform as my mouth yawned wide and I squeaked, “Rotor-discs?” I’m not sure why I sounded surprised to see a fellow native, a fellow classmate and fellow accomplice to some rather classic pranks involving firecrackers and a bucket of moonshine. Boolee is such a small place, after all. However, the amount of Bruit aftershave wafting off his thick neck and hovering like a nuclear cloud startled me that I could not stop the Minnie Mouse voice that suddenly became mine. Blah! Marty never outgrew that crap.
“Nope, rotor cuffs now,” he said between a chomp of his minty smelling gum then flashed me a smile that could light up a football field on a Friday night.
Ah, everyone’s a comedian...
“Ah-hem,” Detective sourpuss interrupted our little reunion. “What’d ya need, Smarty?”
Detective Pine was being serious. Marty’s name is Marty Smarty. I kid you not. How he managed to live through that amount of teasing astounds me. And here I thought I had it unlucky.
“Right, well, I didn’t realize Harley was...yup, seems we all have...”, he said before his gum chewing quickened while his goldenrod eyes flickered from Brent to me then back as he fought back a huge grin all the while looking like he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Then, with a snap of his gum later he concluded saying, “...visitors.”
“They all can wait,” said Brent, not fighting back a grin and stabbing a finger at my rap sheet. “I’m ‘bout done here.”
Marty chuckled, dangerously stretching his uniformed shirt to the brink of ripping off his chiseled chest. He coughed once then said, “Sure thing, boss. Good luck!” He flashed me another smile, a shake of his gleaming and freshly shaven cue ball of a head and then exited Detective Pine’s office. Guess he buffed up to counteract all the wise cracks instead.
Okay, seriously, my arrest is not that funny...or is it?
Detective Pine waited for Marty to leave, closing the door, trained Wannabe and all, before he brought the focus of my rather tight-lipped predicament up once more. “Dodge, please tell me it ain’t what I think it all is?”
“I don’t know what you think half the time, Brent, so you tell me?”
“Jeezus, can’t I get a decent answer outta ya for once?”
“Maybe,” I said.
Oops. His question was rhetorical. His eyebrows shot skyward then scrunched together, dangerously reflecting the overgrown worms attached to the underside of his nose. I should have known he wouldn't appreciate my sparkly wit now. He wasn't a fan of it back in the day, either.
“Look,” I began with a heavy sigh. Sheesh, even my patience was wearing desperately thin. “I took pictures, check my cell, it was my stuff--”
“Yep, we all sure did,” he said, interrupting.
Ok, that is it, the gloves are coming off!
“Look, check whatever it is you need to look up in that computer of yours and you’ll see I owned the truck, the said stolen vehicle in question, the house and all contents therein to do with as I pleased. Personal property and all...”
“Not accordin' to this,” he held up a faxed, black and white copy of the deed to the house then flipped to a second photocopy of a truck title.
I grinned, broadly, all-knowingly. My ex was such a dipshit.
“So, I can go now?”
His smile drooped, I think...maybe. Yes, his smile drooped upside down, those caterpillars in trouble of sliding off into oblivion.
“Christ, now what,” Detective Pine barked to the room, perhaps directed at me as he lifted the receiver of his phone and cried, “What?”
I twiddled my thumbs.
“Oh, I see,” he said then looked at me with a startled expression before concluding with, “Thanks, Reeva, put-er through.” He waited a breath then held the receiver outward, head bowed, blinking back tears.
“For me,” I gushed, ever the popular one.
“Yep,” he managed to say though clenched teeth, desperately fighting back a bout of laughter. On the up side, he was losing the battle. On the downslide, the snigger was at my expense.
I stood up, snatched the phone to my ear, said “Yeah?” to which, the dramatic cry of a thousand animals, screeching, assaulted me all at once: “MOM!”
I winced and held the receiver a good foot away from my delicate hearing. It was devil-child and I could have heard her whiny voice the next county over. No argument, that girl is most definitely a Dodge.
“What do you want, Laney,” I said on a puff of breath that fell twelve carbs short of being noise worthy. I may have a bone to pick with her later about a certain anonymity credo to live by, but for now, I will fake the concerned parent bit.
“WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT THE COP-SHOP? WHEN ARE YOU GETTING BACK FROM THE STORE? DID YOU GET THE COOKIES AND MILK I WANTED--NOT THAT FAKE STUFF--I NEED CHOCOLATE! IT STINKS IN HERE. SHE HAS ALL THOSE DEAD THINGS AND, AND THERE’S NOTHING TO DO! SHE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A TEEVEE OR WI-FI! I’M GONNA DIE AN OLD MAID BEFORE I GET TO CHAT ON FACEBOOK/SNAPCHAT/INSTA AND TWIZZLER! WHEN ARE WE GOING B-A-A-ACK? I MISS D-A-A-AD!”
Whew! Even I had to take a breath after that longwinded, whine-a-thon.
Teenagers.
“I’m kind of in the middle of something here, Laney, I’ll see you when I see you,” and before she could get another word in, I quickly hung up. There, that should teach her for ratting me out.
Detective Pine looked on motionless. I think he looked confused, mouth gaping, chest and shoulders pitched forward while he stared back at me with raised eyebrows. Perhaps that was panic causing his face to go pale instead.
Either way, since Brent refused to elaborate about his marital mishap with Sally, I suppose it might explain why I chose to keep my explanation of this interruption as simplified as possible, given our history and all and merely said, "That was Laney."
"Ah," was all Brent could manage on a choked-out breath.
I spotted my opening, gunned the gas pedal and redirected.
“So anyhoo Detective...I was in my legal parameters, you see. Dummy should have looked closer.” I slumped to that fake leather chair. I was in the right, leaving my ex holding the preverbal bag of dung I had left on his scandalous doorstep.
“What? About this?” he was still holding the photo faxes. I nodded.
“’splain, for my sake, Dodge,” he said rather tersely.
Okeydokey...
I smiled back at Detective Pine. This was going to be fun.
I explained how my now confiscated vehicle, the barbequed Chevy, pool, house and all said altered contents did indeed belong to me, hence checking my cell phone for said pictures, conveniently accompanied with dates after my ex’s signature taking full procession of all said items, minus one, now confiscated Bentley. "Everything was in perfectly good, respectable, workable order...the day I got here.”
Brent ran a meaty hand down his scratchy face and shook his head, bewildered.
Yeah, I had a way of confusing the shit out of men. I am a woman, after all.
“So, let me get this straight,” he said, taking a slurp of his now cooled cup of coffee. My stomach gurgled. Brent ignored it and continued. “Everythang was in your name six days ago?”
“Yep,” I said.
“But you arrived here two days ago in the stolen vee-hicle?
“Allegedly,” I said.
“But now you don’t own a lick a it?”
“Except for Beauty, nope, Nada.”
“And Dickie willin’ly took procession?”
I heaved a sigh. “Guess he forgot to look before he signed.”
Detective Pine tipped his head to the side, furrowed his brows and once more his mustache followed suit of his bewilderment.
“Check the dates of my signature, Brent.”
His eyes dropped down to the two faxes. Nothing registered across his face. Therefore, I pressed on.
“The detail here Dick-tective...” Honestly, that man leaves me no choice. “...is that he took legal possession as I was pulling into Bertie’s driveway, according to my signature, two days ago. Go ask. She’ll confirm I got here then.” Hell, ask Laney. I am ninety-nine percent sure, that little snitch will be happy to squeal as the one calling my ex about this minor entanglement. “Whatever happened between then and now, I can’t say for sure if I may or may not have done those things that accidentally occurred while I was happily driving eastward on I-forty.”
Understanding dawned at a snails’ pace on Detective Pine’s’ sallow face. When he finally figured it out, he released an all-out belly laugh. When the laughter and body shaking finally subsided, he choked out, “Damn Dodge, remind me to never cross paths with you all durin' a man rage!”
Did he just try to make a joke? Nah, he must be too domesticated to match this sparkplug’s backfired wit--hey! I just figured out his dig at me over our past so I flashed him squinty eyes and pouty lips. For added emphasis, I tightly crossed my arms across my chest while steam whistled from my ears.
Brent just shook his head once before he turned back to my rap sheet and opened his mouth to continue our one-on-one confession session when there was a knuckle rap at his office door once more.
I pity the brazen fool...
It was Marty. He came back, still sporting a carefree smile, oblivious to Brent and my tete-a-tete. He must have balls of steel.
He shot me another toothy grin before he turned to address something with Detective Pine about another caller asking about little old me (gush) while, placing a sealed plastic bag to the top of his desk. "...and, you-all-know-who’s gettin’ restless."
“NOT NOW!” barked Detective Pine, his bite threatening to strip the door of its hinges. I nearly fell off my chair a second time. Sheesh, if this kept up, I might need a defibrillator just to keep my heart from racing.
Marty retreated from Detective grouches’ office without as much as a parting gift. Well that was no fun.
“I swear, if I ever get through this, I’ll personally drive you all back to Texas!”
Wait--what? “Oh, hell no, I’m never going back there!”
“That’s what you all done-did said ‘bout here,” quipped Detective Pine.
Swell...bring that up...
I frowned. My stink eye was out of chocolate and caffeine-induced fuel.
“Okay Dodge, answer me this, why come back here if everythang was in your name, why give it all back?”
Man, he was relentless. “Why not,” I said.
“Please, Dodge I’m tryin’ to make sense outta it all.”
“Okay.”
“Well?” he pressed on.
“Right, tax evasion,” I said a bit too punctual.
“Wha--you,” he asked.
“No, no, Detective,” I was fighting back my own bout of laughter now, “His.”
He paused long enough to snap the last puzzle piece into place before saying, “Damn Dodge, you all ain’t the girl I used to know.”
Thank God for small favors.
“Am too,” I lifted my chin a notch, defiant and proud like my Dodge heritage.
“Dodge,” he shot me a cautionary look.
Ah lovely, saved yet again by the phone jingle.
Detective Pine hesitated, eyes darting from me to the phone and back, his shoulders trembled slightly. Is that fear I see? Nope, he's chuckling.
“Hullo? What? No... I can’t say...I couldn’t say...not now...yup, she all’s still here...nope...no comment...okay...sure...afternoon, ma’am.”
Well that was teeth and butt clenching. “Sally?”
“No,” he said with glistening eyes, “The Redlight.”
Just my sucky luck, it was the local paper, owned and operated by none other than my Aunt Gladys on my mother’s side of things. With Mom and Uncle Branson since having passed on and Uncle Branson leaving Gladys without children, she had no reason to stick around Boolee. However, she did and even though I still think of her as family, Gladys would sell me out for front-page news, no questions or relative connection to hinder her pursuit of Boolee's latest gossip. Such is my curse. Gladys found out quicker than I thought. I was certain my bad rap was going to spread faster than a gallon of moonshine shared during a bonfire after Prom once she got hold of the full, dirty and ugly story.
Bonfire. That last thought made me chuckle that quickly spread into an all-out, crazed-eyed, wild cackle that would give Norman Bates’ mother a run for her rocker. Seriously, I was starting to lose my cool here.
Brent gave me a hardened stare that made me feel like someone had flipped a switch and cranked the air conditioning over to subzero. His expression worked wonder-bread on me because I had managed to turn off the psycho ward laugh, calming down to instead fiddle with a buckle on my left, well-worn Harley Davidson motorcycle styled boot, praying he was about to end our stupid little unexpected and unnecessary reunion, here at my second least favorite place about this tourist trap.
Detective Pine continued to elude me with his own bewilderment. Seconds ticked by when I realized he was surveying me now. I looked up. No, not surveying me, he was looking at me as if a pimple had sprouted between my eyes but he was too polite to tell me. Actually...he was looking at me as if there was something more that he wished to say, or rather, add to my growing list of charges but did not have the guts to rain on my shit-parade.
After a heartbeat, I spoke up. Honestly, his staring was freaking me out. “What?”
Detective Pine kept his gaze locked onto mine, still fingering my rat sheet list of questionable, extra circular activities. My mind suddenly filled with questions of my own. Did my rap sheet stem back to here?
“Just say it, Detective,” I huffed. “I’m getting a rash from this pleather chair.”
A smile inched to his lips but drew back just as quick. He cleared his throat once then said, “Dickie is willin' to drop them all charges.”
Great!
I jumped to my feet, eager to leave, saying, “You can tell that idiot to suck on his so-called charges. I’m out of here!”
This caused Brent to snap out of his reverie and wave me back down.
“The thang is,” he began cautiously. “Mister Trollop don’t wish to press charges.”
Hunh? Oh yeah, right, “Because he’ll be investigated," I said, hesitant to return to that pleather seat.
“Well, yeah, only if you all be willin' to press charges back? No, Harley, lis’en, that’s not what’s got me all buggered up.”
“No? What has Brent?”
“He wants...” his voice faltered.
Spit it out already. “What does he want, Brent?” I gave in, perched at the edge and gripped that pleather seat bracing for the inevitable charge of kidnapping.
Brent’s eyes roamed all about his office. He was stalling.
“Just tell me what he wants, Brent.”
“He wants...he wants you all to come back.”
What? Now I was truly stumped. No way. That's the last thing, and I mean, the world's going to end, kind of last thing I expected to hear. I did not have a comeback for that. Or did I? No, this had to be some screwed-up, sadistic game of Dickie's to get me to step foot on Texas soil so he could be “rid of me,” --(his words not mine) --“once and for all”.
Although...
“No. No way,” I said just as flatly as my other responses and crossed arms against my chest. “Ludicrous.”
“Seems like,” he said, sounding relieved.
Good, I thought before saying, “Thought so.”
“Any idea why that’d be,” he asked.
Yes. “No.”
“Dodge...”
Oh, now he is just messing with me. “You already know why.”
He shifted some more, all fidgety. “It’s that...that thang with your all hands ain’t it?”
“Hand, left one, and yes, it does.”
“Oh man,” he said, the air hissing from his lungs like a deflating balloon. “I just knew it, the second I heard ‘bout your all pick up. Knew it had to be sumpin ‘bout that.”
Gee thanks for the flattery. “It’s not like I got cooties or anything, Brent.”
“I thought...ah hell, I don’t believe it? Havin’ a conversation ‘bout that all odd tic...”
“Well it isn’t odd and it isn’t a tic, Brent.” I frowned, doing my best to get him to look my way. Brent always did have the sensitivity of a gnat.
Eventually, he glanced up and looked me in the eye. “Dang, girl, so it all's factual then, it all weren’t just a one-time thang?”
Is it just me, or is his accent getting thicker?
“Nope, sorry to disappoint,” I said.
Detective Pine slumped against his creaky chair, face falling to his cradled hands. Hmm, do you think that maybe I should leave?
After several minutes of him muttering to his hands and me contemplating sneaking out of here unseen, he said to me, “Anyone else besides me know ‘bout your all handicap?”
Oh great, in the spans of two seconds I went from criminal to honored participant in the Special Olympics. “Look, this thing--whatever you want to call it--it’s not a curse, but it sure isn’t a gift. It can’t help me repel mosquitoes, and it certainly won’t win me any awards because no one--and I mean, no one--knows about the freakish ability of mine other than you. And I would appreciate if you kept it that way.”
Okay, maybe I might have accidentally told Miss Surelee once before. However, he lives in Amarillo and I’m certain, he hasn’t squealed either.
After a moment of contemplating the thought of eating a bullet (his reflection, not mine) Detective Pine cast an uneasy glance about his office before saying, “Is there all wanna them-there thangs here now?”
I stared at him head on, non-blinking. “I’m not a channeler, Brent.” Honestly, the things people think up.
“B-But you all don’t see wanna them all now, right?”
“Listen up, because I’m only going to say this once. In your case, twice,” I paused for his benefit then took a deep breath. “I DO NOT, NOR HAVE I EVER SEEN GHOSTS.”
“But I thought,” he said, his face twisting up into thought. Ouch. It must really hurt. It looks painful on him. “I thought with that-thar girl...the one who all died...thought you all said she all told you all where-in to find her killer?”
I sighed, my head drooped and I shut my eyes tight. A breath later I glanced up and asked, “Look, you all really need me to explain my ability to you all...again?” Sheesh, Boolee is infectious. Brent has me so irritated that I am starting to talk like one of them. “Well? Do you?”
He shook his head no but he was, after all, a Detective and was not about to let this other ‘ditty’ trail off. “Remind me again what all happened back then?”
His voice was eerily quiet when he asked me. I almost said no.
“Okay, here is how it works...again...” and I went into the story of how, if I touch certain inanimate objects with my left hand, I get a reaction; the opposite of the Midas touch. Something like an allergy only much bigger, more see through and often, longer lasting. For some reason, only I can see or understand the essence of that objects’ previous owner. A person that passed on violently or someone who had forgotten to settle their last bout of important business while still among the living. Sometimes it had to do directly with said object touched by my cursed hand. Oftentimes, it did not. More than anything, it always centered someone's death.
One time it was a framed oil painting, separated from its twin, painted by some famous ancestor of the current owner. The ghostly owner wanted it reunited with the owner of the other painting, who more importantly, was his great, grandniece. That was the first time I noticed I had magical powers, or so I thought. Cut me some slack here, I was eight at the time and full of naïveté.
The certain girl Brent is referring to owned a heart-shaped locket that I just happened to come across one day along a back trail near my family’s property, yards away from where her body, accidentally discovered by one of my cousins. Body recovered, the police were desperate for clues as to what happened. When I touched the locket, an avalanche of images, sounds, smells even taste for what that little girl’s’ last hours were like assaulted me at once. (Trust me, it wasn’t pleasant). I even knew the name of her killer. It was difficult to explain how I knew so I just slipped the necklace to an envelope, wrote the killer’s name on the outside and gave it to Brent. His father Stubby was Boolee’s sheriff at the time. I figured Brent would do the right thing and pass it along. He did. I only told Brent that I happened across it by mistake. Soon after the killer brought in for questioning where he later confessed to the senseless crime. This only piqued Brent's curiosity. I thought nothing of it and gladly told him my secret.
Huge mistake!
Yep, he did not believe me then either, which is part of the reason why I sprang at the first chance to leave Boolee as fast as I could, so much so, that I forgot my unique talent...or tried to, at least.
“I see,” he said with a curt nod, absorbing the interminable explanation as to my quirk. He still looked unconvinced, however. It took him several minutes more before he broke free of his silent thoughts to ask, “So you all might be stickin' 'round a bit longer?"
Uh...maybe... "Yeah sure," I said, giving him half a shoulder shrug, totally lying. First chance I got I was blowing this tick-infested town.
I think he bought it because next he was asking me, "Then you all gonna file an official divorce in the Boolee courts I’d ‘magin?”
Dang, he sure knew how to take the wind out of my happy sails.
“No need. So, are we done here?”
“What--you all goin' back?”
“Not for a million bucks,” I said, flashing him a toothy grin over my own private joke. See? I can do it too.
“Harley, you all gotta go back or stay here and cut ties with that-thar joker.”
Joker, I agree.
“We weren’t legally married, Brent. So now can I leave?”
“Uh, what," he gave me a hard stare that was more questioning than anything else but quickly rearranged his thoughts to say instead, "Nope, no-never mind, it ain’t my business."
For once, he and I agreed.
Detective Pine continued to finger my violated list of innocent hobbies, clearly not ready to let this little ditty alone. Hmm, I wonder if maybe this might be a good time to ask for my own copy to frame and proudly display. I digress, I did not ask.
"Can I get Beauty and go now?"
Brent broke free of his thoughts, looked up and finally answered me saying, “Sorry, Dodge, but the vee-hicle in question will be at Impound. Its bein’ your all interest to stick 'round town 'til that-thar matter gets cleared up. As for the other, alleged incident, seein' how Dickie ain't gotta pot to piss in provin’ you all done-did what he’s barkin' you all done-did, I’d say your all free to go.” He nodded toward his office door.
There's no need telling me twice as I sprang from my chair and just reached the doorknob when he called to me. “Don’t forget your stuff, Dodge.”
I had nearly forgotten about my personal belongings officer Newbie had confiscated upon my handcuffed, drooling and deranged looking arrival. I ripped the plastic bag open and slipped the cell phone, Beauty’s car fob and pack of fruity tasting gum to my pockets. Then I cautiously plucked the antique-looking, rusted bronze skeleton key, attached to a gold chain (with my right hand) and looped it over my neck. It dangled to my navel. Brent flashed me raised eyebrows over this but I refused to explain on grounds of lunacy. I fished out the last item, my very anorexic wallet and tossed the plastic bag. No wait--I wasn’t completely broke--I still had two dollars! With a spring to my step, I turned for the door, ready for my escape.
“Oh, and Harley,” said Detective Pine.
I stiffened; freedom so close, I asked, “What now?”
“Boolee ain't what you all done-did left it," he said, his voice monotone, adding, "But you all dodged the bullet this-here time, so welcome back.”
BLAH!
I shot him my squinty-eyes since my stink eye had long since petered out. I high-tailed it out of there so fast I left smoldering boot prints in my wake. Unfortunately, I was not fast enough to bypass several sniggers and two uniforms daring to high-five me.
“Spray-paint...gutsy,” one of the bubble-headed officers chuckled.
Another shook his square head, eyes contorted in question as he said, “Who’d a thunk it to all use an armadillo like that?”
While I impatiently waited for Marty to buzz me back out into the lobby, another younger officer-—not Newbie, probably his cousin though—-pounded me on the back as if I had just won the national chug off beer-a-thon. His look-alike partner elbowed his side with a snicker about peanut butter and shaving cream. Oh yeah, my thoughts twinkled delightfully. That was classic revenge 101. Read the handbook buddy-boy!
Marty finally stepped up to the toady looking front desk officer where I noticed him stuffing the last of a coconut zinger to his fishy lips. Our eyes locked as mine narrowed to little slits and his went wide before Officer Connelly gulped and quickly looked away. Thanks for nothing, Brent, my thoughts seethed.
Marty grinned with a shake of his head after overhearing the Wannabes lighthearted banter as he approached the front desk. He shot me twinkling eyes saying, "Glad to have you all back, Dodge," before he buzzed me out of solitary confinement.
I kept my head bent and bee-lined it for the front doors. I was so close to the exit now that I could smell freedom when a booming voice from beyond this world halted me in my tracks--literally. I froze to the spot, my muscles tensed and my innards squirmed into a knotted noose. I would rather have dental surgery without Novocain than subjected to that ungodly voice longer than necessary. I did not need to look. In hindsight, I probably should have. Then I could have bribed a Wannabe to sneak me out the back door, unseen or have Detective Pine put me in protective custody. Alas, I did not because I knew whom that voice belonged and all of me sagged. It came from the dark side of the moon and made Hell sound like a picnic at a theme Park.
That voice bellowed a second time causing me to break free of my miserable angst, if only to cause temporarily paralysis of my brain. Sighing, the inevitable delayed no longer I gave in to the guilt of it all, slowly turned and using a voice rivaling that of a five-year-old I said, “H-e-y-y...”
The voice belonged to a man who stood over six foot, seven inches tall, tree-trunk legs to a wide stance, ham sized arms pretzeled over his barrel, broad shouldered chest, glaring, looking like a smoldering brick wall or the missing link. More precise: he looked a distant relative to a disgruntled Paul Bunyan.
Lovely, my luck just dissolved like my desire to stay and I was certain, it wasn’t going to improve things at all because the Devil must be on sabbatical and a new hellhound ruled the town...the Devil incarnate...Big Red, and known on lesser planets, as my Dad.
Do NOT tell Red I said that.
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