Pancake Eyes

“That's my girl.”

He left the porch he once painted.  He drove down the street and waited.  After five minutes, she was out the door, in her ForeRunner that he had purchased and off toward the northern side of town.  He kept his distance because he knew her destination.  But he dared not dawdle.  She did not value patience.

It was an hour before the cop pulled into his driveway.  She waited until the cruiser stopped and then floored the ForeRunner and plowed over his mailbox.  His face glowed red in the darkness and he fired orders at her.  She emerged from the ForeRunner with the .38 trained on him.

George crept out of his Camry and hunkered down.  The cop stepped forward and wrestled with her.  George stepped lively to them.  The cop slapped her face, but she held on.  George stepped behind the ForeRunner.  The open windows revealed that the leather car freshener scent lingered.  What a scent.  He felt a desire to wrestle her away and take her on the hood like so many times before but the chances of that died long ago.

The cop delivered a right cross to her cheek that sent her colliding with the fender.  She fell down, but was not quite unconscious.  George drew a pistol, stood and pumped two rounds into the cop's throat.  He watched George as if he were the devil himself.  George watched him back like a dog ready to strike.  The cop blubbered something through the blood running down his chin.  Then he dropped to the pavement along with his the .38.

“That's right.”





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)