fell under your hex. My timing was impeccable, you said, since I had the right stuff to secure your revenge. I thought my face burned with my love for you, but it was my lust to jump in your yoni pot. So, you had your agenda, and I had mine. We schemed away. It was, I declared, a foolproof plan. Then you smiled, and I liked it. A lot. I complimented your perfume. You giggled. We kissed. Things heated up, and like that I was flat out on your sofa. You climbed into the saddle and rode bronco on top…
You knew the arrogant lout, an ice skating freak, every Thursday rented out a Springfield arena off-hours to enjoy it all for himself. He'd money to burn. That peculiar habit provided us the ripest ambush site. Arriving early at one a.m., I loided the front door lock, hustled down a chilly corridor, and ducked through the clear vinyl strips hanging down in a doorway to seal off the heat. The manager's warmer office upstairs was the nook where I waited.
The office's interior window overlooked the semi-dark, NHL-sized ice rink. The Zamboni, burly as a bull rhino, squatted in the far corner. Hours ago I knew cheerful pairs and singles of men, women, and children had skated below on the oval of ice. Sitting on the wood benches behind the plastic shield wall and lacing up their skates, new enthusiasts hurried to get out on the ice.
But not me. I determined I'd better rub out the arrogant lout before he tied on his skates and glided over the ice. I was no fan of slippery surfaces, especially when I locked into my stance and flexed the .22's trigger. All my targets went down fast and clean. That was sacrosanct. I wanted no parts of a messy hit.
For now, I kicked back in the swivel chair behind the desk. My body clock demanded sleep, and with slack time on hand, I catnapped. The next thing I knew the harsher illumination from the overhead lights flared on to brighten the ice rink below, and the glare through the office window prodded me awake. Heart sent riveting, I stole over to the window and peeped down at the ice rink's new brilliance on the lone skater.
"Oh shit."
The arrogant lout had put on his skates while this sleeping beauty snoozed, and he was zipping around like a hockey puck. The .22 I'd brought couldn't nail a speeding target. I watched him zigzagging in a figure-8 as if taunting and daring me to pursue him. I always held out the option to abort, regroup, and whack him at a future place and time of my choosing.
Except I'd promised you, Gwen girl, I'd do it that night, and a promise made is a promise kept. I nudged the office chair under the desk and on my trip downstairs, I realized he couldn't skate all night without taking a smoke or bathroom break. That's when I'd plant him. So, I waited in a lounge chair just off from the main entry to the ice rink, and he couldn't spot me without knowing where to look.
"W-e-e-e!" he shouted, whipping over the ice.
I shifted in the chair, playing on a Game Boy some absent-minded kid had left there. This was the right spot for me to be. He'd exit through here, the only portal out of the rink. This time I didn't nod off. Adrenaline amped my system, and I trembled like a wind-buffeted suspension bridge does.
Then the lounge door clattered open, and I was hunkering behind the soda machine. He'd removed his skates, and I saw he walked in green-plaid socks. That put us on an equal footing, so to speak. I gripped to the .22 tighter. My leg muscles quivered for me to spring out.
Then, like a hunted animal, he sensed my feral menace before he saw me. When I vaulted up from behind the soda machine, he'd already turned and ran, making for the exit before I could take aim to pop him. I smoked out two caps, and I may've winged him. Our chase was on, and he pumped his stumpy legs and scurried back for the rink. I was seven or eight paces behind him. We bumbled and slid over the ice. No more gunshots blatted out since I wanted to conserve my ammo until the lights out moment came.
"Hey! Who
You knew the arrogant lout, an ice skating freak, every Thursday rented out a Springfield arena off-hours to enjoy it all for himself. He'd money to burn. That peculiar habit provided us the ripest ambush site. Arriving early at one a.m., I loided the front door lock, hustled down a chilly corridor, and ducked through the clear vinyl strips hanging down in a doorway to seal off the heat. The manager's warmer office upstairs was the nook where I waited.
The office's interior window overlooked the semi-dark, NHL-sized ice rink. The Zamboni, burly as a bull rhino, squatted in the far corner. Hours ago I knew cheerful pairs and singles of men, women, and children had skated below on the oval of ice. Sitting on the wood benches behind the plastic shield wall and lacing up their skates, new enthusiasts hurried to get out on the ice.
But not me. I determined I'd better rub out the arrogant lout before he tied on his skates and glided over the ice. I was no fan of slippery surfaces, especially when I locked into my stance and flexed the .22's trigger. All my targets went down fast and clean. That was sacrosanct. I wanted no parts of a messy hit.
For now, I kicked back in the swivel chair behind the desk. My body clock demanded sleep, and with slack time on hand, I catnapped. The next thing I knew the harsher illumination from the overhead lights flared on to brighten the ice rink below, and the glare through the office window prodded me awake. Heart sent riveting, I stole over to the window and peeped down at the ice rink's new brilliance on the lone skater.
"Oh shit."
The arrogant lout had put on his skates while this sleeping beauty snoozed, and he was zipping around like a hockey puck. The .22 I'd brought couldn't nail a speeding target. I watched him zigzagging in a figure-8 as if taunting and daring me to pursue him. I always held out the option to abort, regroup, and whack him at a future place and time of my choosing.
Except I'd promised you, Gwen girl, I'd do it that night, and a promise made is a promise kept. I nudged the office chair under the desk and on my trip downstairs, I realized he couldn't skate all night without taking a smoke or bathroom break. That's when I'd plant him. So, I waited in a lounge chair just off from the main entry to the ice rink, and he couldn't spot me without knowing where to look.
"W-e-e-e!" he shouted, whipping over the ice.
I shifted in the chair, playing on a Game Boy some absent-minded kid had left there. This was the right spot for me to be. He'd exit through here, the only portal out of the rink. This time I didn't nod off. Adrenaline amped my system, and I trembled like a wind-buffeted suspension bridge does.
Then the lounge door clattered open, and I was hunkering behind the soda machine. He'd removed his skates, and I saw he walked in green-plaid socks. That put us on an equal footing, so to speak. I gripped to the .22 tighter. My leg muscles quivered for me to spring out.
Then, like a hunted animal, he sensed my feral menace before he saw me. When I vaulted up from behind the soda machine, he'd already turned and ran, making for the exit before I could take aim to pop him. I smoked out two caps, and I may've winged him. Our chase was on, and he pumped his stumpy legs and scurried back for the rink. I was seven or eight paces behind him. We bumbled and slid over the ice. No more gunshots blatted out since I wanted to conserve my ammo until the lights out moment came.
"Hey! Who
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