Formerly Fingerman by Joe Nelms Page B

this nobody with nothing had jumped?
    Something in one of the apartment windows of the slightly shorter building across the street caught Brad’s eye. It was a shirtless man waving furiously at him.
    Wow. Maybe someone did care.
    The man raised his eyebrows as high as he could get them and held up a finger to say Hold on one second . Brad looked around to make sure he was the intended recipient of the message. It appeared he was. He nodded his agreement. Did this perfect stranger have some insight into Brad’s turmoil and confusion? Perhaps even been in his situation before? Could it be that someone who didn’t even know him actually gave a shit?
    Window Man smiled and ran off. Calling the cops? Rushing over to my building to talk me down himself? Checking the Internet to see how to handle this emergency?
    Nope. Not at all.
    Window Man came back into his window stripped completely naked. He had a raging hard on and began pleasuring himself like an Amish butter churner working a Shake Weight. Again with the eyebrows, only this time they seemed to be saying, Now, wasn’t this worth the wait? Huh? Right?
    While it wasn’t exactly the warm nose of a trusty companion nuzzling his ankles or the adorable voice of a newsboy-capped ragamuffin asking Hey mister, whatcha doing? , it did gross Brad out enough to shake him from his suicidal fugue state. He might need to rethink this.
    True, the choice to grab the vine that went straight down would be his and his alone, influenced by no one. He would own it. But ultimately, it was tough to justify the control-affirming aspect of it with the end result. Death by homoerotic suicide or the Witness Protection Program? While the latter was intimidating in its potential for a lackluster future, the former would not be treated kindly by the Post . Also, Brad would be dead.
    Shit.
    Brad hopped off the ledge and backed away from the option that wasn’t really an option. Window Man was devastated, pleading with the one finger to wait-wait-wait . It seemed that something exciting was about to happen, but Brad decided not to stick around for the big finale.
    Stump fired up the dark, American-made sedan illegally parked in front of the building and Brittany watched the street as James held the passenger door open.
    â€œJames, if you see my wife, tell her I left. And I’m never coming back. And I know there’s no such thing as spontaneous herpes.”
    James considered Brad with the eyes of a man who had seen this too many times before.
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œBreasts. Two for a dollar.”
    â€œIn your dreams, sicko.”
    Owen probably should have seen that one coming. He hadn’t meant for today’s coupon to sound like a sale inside this passing woman’s blouse. Chicken breasts really were the special of the day, and they were being sold in pairs. It was Chuck’s idea and it had not struck him that there was anything inappropriate in his marketing strategy. Chuck only knew he had ordered too many chicken breasts and had to unload them pronto.
    Stump’s government-issue ride pulled up to the curb in front of the fire hydrant and idled. Owen checked his reflection in its tinted windows. Oh yeah, still a very handsome chicken if he didn’t mind saying so himself. He went back to work.
    â€œ Chicken breasts. Two for a dollar.”
    Stump got out and walked around the car to the sidewalk. Owen held out a flier.
    â€œWing wangs are on sale today, too.”
    Stump ignored him and looked around to make sure the coast was clear before signaling to the car.
    The back window of the sedan rolled down a crack.
    â€œ Owen! ” came the harsh whisper from the back seat.
    Subtleties of speech tend to be lost on people in chicken suits and whispering can be especially tricky. You generally have to be in a position where they can actually see you whisper. Owen looked around and whisper-yelled back.
    â€œ Hello? ”
    â€œ Owen, over