by T. C. Clover
and fell backward with an unexpected bounce on the corner of his bed.
“I’ll give you a silver coin and a gold coin,” the intense woman proposed with a hurtful expression as tears dripped from her cheeks onto his black microfiber shirt.
Litz was wearing a formfitting white dress, but it didn’t stop her from climbing atop the shy conservative. The ethical man squirmed in his tight black jeans when she squeezed his chest with her hands as if to beg for mercy. Richard looked down at the frog and then up at the face of his adversary. She seemed innocent and vulnerable at the moment, and he acknowledged her love for the strange heirloom.
The eager Republican reacted with instant remorse from this display of emotions. While it felt good to knock Litz off of her soapbox for a few seconds, he had no intention of wounding her to such an extent. She reminded him of a fierce beast in the wild, with the penetrating eyes of something that refused to give up, but had no alternative. Her gaze pleaded with him in vain, and he saw something more beautiful than ever before in his lifetime.
“Give me the coins tomorrow. I didn’t do anything to damage your frog.” The compassionate man gave in with a sudden feeling of inner peace, wishing that the camera crew hadn’t been there to cheapen the moment.
Richard raised his right hand from his waist in a ceremonial fashion and returned the small stuffed frog to the plumber. Litz reached for the frog with tenderness and reverence, breathing in with relief when it touched her skin. She got up from the bed and turned the object over in her hands like it was a rare treasure.
The satisfied conservative also got to his feet and joined her in admiring the simple toy. It was an unremarkable frog with long, rectangular paint on its eyes and small webbed feet made of felt. Litz massaged it in her hands as though it were conjuring up a time in her life of great sorrow and joy.
“Get out!” Richard scorned the camera crew with a wicked stare from his pure blue eyes. “You got your footage; now get out!” He repeated without hesitation and ushered the men away from his bedroom before closing the door.
Richard then stepped up behind Litz and put his arms around her soft, feminine stomach in a silent apology. She clasped her free hand over his masculine hands in acceptance of the gesture.
“Harry got up…dressed all in black.” [1] Jazzy sang along with a recording of The Eagles that was playing from her personal stereo in the corner of the bathroom. “Went down to the station…and he never came back.” [2]
Fassim used a butter knife to slide the bathroom door open and proceeded inside with her phone set in video record mode. She knew that a video of Jazzy singing in the shower would yield big money, especially from such a well-known song. The crafty Muslim pulled an orange hijab tight around her head, straightened her eyeglasses, and returned the butter knife to the left pocket of her beige pantsuit. She then crept in a clandestine manner toward the shower, keeping her satellite phone ready for action. After a few steps, Fassim’s feet began to slip, and she tried to balance herself by grabbing the toilet, but the floor was too slick. The photographer felt her feet shoot out from under her in a whoosh of energy, causing her back to slam against the white porcelain tiles.
“Oh, I said, somebody going to emergency; somebody's going to jail.” [3] Jazzy sang as she threw the shower curtain aside to catch her assailant in a compromising position. “Did you know that tiles become really slick when you coat them with industrial soap and water? Well, look at what we have here; it’s a sat’ phone.” The wrathful comedian reached down past the shower curtain and scooped up Fassim’s satellite phone from the floor. “This is an expensive sat’ phone.” She relayed with a smirk, holding the unit between her index finger and thumb. “Well, I guess you can’t prosecute me for destroying property, huh?” Jazzy dropped the red satellite phone into the basin of the shower and watched it become submerged in water with elation.
“You know what, Jazzy?” Fassim replied with a wounded scowl, trying to maintain her composure despite the pain in her back. “A real comedian…would have said something hilarious just now, but I guess that’s why you’re a reality TV star instead.”
“Close the door,” Jazzy berated with a roll of her eyes. “The weather forecast predicts perverted men with a high chance of catcalls. There’s also a high douchebag index today, so you better wear a darker headscarf.” She finished with authority, pretending to drop a microphone by letting a bar of soap fall from her left hand in a dramatic display. “Get out and let me shower in peace!” The diva issued a final warning before clutching the shower curtain and flinging it shut. “In a New York minute...everything can change.” [4] She continued to mock her rival through lyrical bliss.
Canarsie Park – Brooklyn, New York
CKB traversed through the park with a noticeable limp, having ignored Petunia’s advice to get a walking stick. His body was a bit too warm clad a black hoodie and faded blue jeans. Cody moved with meticulous determination, knowing that a predator was watching the children, and he had to do something. The career criminal felt grateful toward Stoney for being a man under pressure during his confrontation with Hector. But he presumed that it was a fleeting moment at best, and wouldn’t expect kindness in the future.
“Why didn’t you take this guy down when you were healthy?” He asked himself as the asphalt parking lot and concrete paths gave way to trees and swing sets.
It had taken a labor of passion for CKB to make it to the park, but he was glad that the journey wasn’t wasted, noting that his target was right on schedule. He made his way to the wrought iron fence that enveloped the play area and craned his thick neck at the creepy German stranger, attempting to get the man’s attention. Cody licked his dry lips at the onset of raw pain from his wounded right ankle and considered his options.
The short, pale German turned toward CKB with a sudden and intense stare of hatred. He watched the black man with the contempt of a sociopath and shook his head, signaling a possible retreat.
CKB smiled at the odd stranger and made a fist with his right hand. He then slammed the fist into the palm of his left hand and wrapped his free fingers over the knuckles.
“Jimmy, come here!” A startled mother called out to a four-year-old boy that was playing in the sandbox just ten feet from where CKB was standing. “Get away from that man! He’s not having a good day.”
The thirty-one-year-old blonde mother stepped with aggressive poise through the sandbox to position herself between CKB and her child. She then pulled out a satellite phone and twisted her head so that the agitator could see her making a call. In another protective move, she escorted her little boy away from the sandbox, causing a little girl near him to cry and hold up her hands. CKB bit his lip when he saw the youngster lose her playmate for the day.
‘Bye-bye,’ the self-righteous German mouthed to CKB as the mother’s actions began to influence the situation.
CKB was thunderstruck by this development and wanted to accuse the woman of racism, but he knew better. His threatening actions near the children had been less than glowing. The mothers would alert the local police, and they would be keeping an eye out for him in the future.
“Unbelievable,” CKB stated to an empty corner of the sandbox, keeping his eyes fixed on the predator that stood across from him.
He leaned back with his hands still clasping the iron railing. Every muscle in his body wanted to stay and protect the children, but it wasn’t a part of town where the police would show him any kindness. CKB let his fingers slip from the railing in a slow and humiliating defeat. He turned his back on the children, despite knowing that something terrible could soon take place.
His defeat worsened with every step, and the criminal hung his head. The pain from his twisted ankle was now like the wailing of children screaming for his help. He thought of the horrid disappointment exhibited by the little girl in the sandbox and presumed that the stranger
could evoke despair a hundred times darker. In a moment of inspiration, he fished a satellite phone from his right pocket and dialed a recent contact from his list of friends.
“Hey, Petunia, how you doin’, baby?” CKB began with a smooth tone of voice, despite the pain in his foot. “Yeah, I’m sorry I haven’t called you. No, no, I’ve been busy. Look, I need a favor… No, this is somethin’ important to me. Look, just listen, I need you to take your lunch hour at Canarsie Park every day. It would be great if you could keep an eye on the kids… No, I don’t have any kids. Look, I just need someone to keep an eye on these kids. Okay, you’re gonna’ be like that? Fine, we’re done! ‘bye!” He ended the phone call with a contemptible sigh, wishing that someone could understand what he was trying to get done.
The Shots Fired Loft – Manhattan, New York
“I’d like to propose a toast to our friends from NASA for providing this scrumptious catered meal,” Mike Farr pandered to the television cameras like a bonafide Hollywood peacock. “And although none of it falls into my current diet, I’m sure that no aliens were harmed in the making of this food.” The director quipped as he stood tall in his black designer pinstripe suit with a gold tie.
With the exception