First the short one did it.
Then the other.
They could lay a pancake block on Brian Urlacher for sure, these two sisters that couldn't have been more than ten.
They were standing in front of the pop dispenser. Shooting it into their cupped hands and slurping it up. Was it Coke? Dr. Pepper? I can't tell you because I couldn't see through the adipose tissue and dual thickets of dirty brown hair. I could only hear the slurping, clicking of the mechanism and that torqued chortle native to ultra obese children.
I stood behind them, waiting patiently with my tray and empty cup.
Then the short one, who was in purple moon boots and had a wet spot at the ass end of her crotch, she flicked a handful of droplets in her sister's face.
Then the other, with matching boots and wet spot – not to be outdone, she reciprocated. Only the short one was wise and executed a lateral sidestep that someone her size has no business making.
I found myself on the ground, my tray and contents splattered to one side and my lonely cup to the other.
Then the nice black woman, the one that had said god bless and made me make the sign of the cross when my order came to six sixty six. She sprinted from behind the counter.
"This ain't yo house - na uh – don't you be messin a' foo' in hea', you get on, you get on the hell out this store." Her hands were rabid lobsters, they shook so fiercely in those little girls' faces that I thought they might snap clean off her wrists.
"You don't talk to my girls like that you dirty jigaboo." Came a cinderblock voice from the play area to our left.
The man had basketballs in his calves. A shaved head and a sleeveless red flannel. He made a gun with his thumb and index finger and jammed it back and forth towards her face. As he did so, the large black swastika on his bicep twirled like a helicopter blade.
"You thea' daddy? Wea' then you show these girls how to act propa' when they out tha' house." The lobsters were now tight fists and she had them up in the air over her head.
Still in my prone position, him at my left foot and her at my right, I gingerly brought my legs up and slowly pushed myself back, further and further until my head hit the far wall. Then I slinked to the right and hid behind the corner of the counter.
It was bluegills on chum out there. An old white man was waving his cane in the air with one hand while holding his pants barely above the ankles with the other.
Then I saw him squirt through the melee. A little boy of maybe five years old. Obviously the swastika's son, they had the exact same porcine nose and dead shark eyes.
He went to each register, opened them up like he'd done it a hundred times and emptied the contents into a little Spider Man backpack.
His backpack full, the kid squirted back through the madness, out the exit and into the side door of a rickety tan van with a black bubble window in back.
I snuck out through the opposite door.
"Fugin walk", the same little kid growled at me when I flung the van door open. He had a rifle pointed square in my face.
"Whoa," I put my hands in the air.
I took my chance when he glanced over to see if they had made their exit yet.
"Zing Zang," I said, snatching the gun and the backpack.
I sprinted the short distance to the privacy fence lining the back of the parking lot and hopped it in one clean slice.
Justin Hyde lives in Des Moines, Iowa. At one time he artificially inseminated pigs for a living. He has also been a bicycle mechanic, day laborer, pscyh ward patient, bank examiner, claim's adjuster... Currently he is a Parole Officer. He has a college degree in psychology from the University Of Iowa - not that that means shit... If you want to fuck with Justin he can be contacted at jjjjhyde@yahoo.com, he'll reply for sure, the vain narcissistic fuck. If you want to see more slivers of shit from Justin see: www.myspace.com/fdostoev