Jet Pack

[Flash fiction for the Crash and Burn — The Steve Weddle Memorial Airport Flash Fiction]

The cat was back on the garage roof, and Pop was mad.

“Dirty animals, those cats,” he said, pressing a .308 round into the Winchester rifle.

A scrawny kid with a mop-top of red hair and limbs like a tangle of broomsticks sat at a small computer. He yelped as they kicked open the door, and the keyboard in his lap spun to the floor. Grebok, rarely one to examine his immediate surroundings, marched over to the teen and socked him in the jaw. The gawky teen cried out. “Suck fist, pirate captain!” Grebok said, then turned to Chuckles and gave the thumbs-up. Chuckles, the smart one by only a scant few micrometers of smartness, paused.

Slow night. Snow and sleet came down like slushy piss. The bar was empty but for him and her. But this is where Jonny Stoops found himself, night after night, no matter the weather.

The hen was caught mid-gobble, her beak snapping up whole corn cobs right off their stalks.

Little bones—most no bigger than marbles, some like long teeth—spill out.

I kick him in the knee and the cap pops like rotten wood. The leg folds backward and he topples. I hit him in the head with the tire iron. It’s easier than squashing a pumpkin.

Using his front teeth like a rabbit, he bit the end off the candy bar. The taste of honey hit his tongue. Some kind of sweet syrup – not quite caramel, definitely not nougat – connected with the roof of his mouth and he had to lick it off.

Now, first, let me say that this is a pet peeve because it’s something I used to do. The only reason I’m jumping up and down, flapping my arms like an imbecile, is so you don’t fall in the same hole again and again.

He blinks. “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty. Ten. Shrug.”

“Did you just say shrug instead of actually shrugging?”