(no subject)
The engine wouldn’t crank all the way, and the radio blared Rush Limbaugh loudly,
echoing across the fetid brown surface of Lake Me. The scene in the lake looked like recess, when a playground monitor had blown her whistle, summoning transgressors to the principal’s office.
Carmine could see Pete slump his shoulders in that New York tough sort of way, admitting a reluctant defeat, but promising retaliation.
Carmine saw Henge, in his thirteen footer, replete with Sioux Indian headdress and cranking his water cannon such that his craft appeared to be urinating in fear at the sight of the Sorbonne Police.
Carmine popped the hood, and ambled over, and giggled a wire to the starter motor, and retried the ignition. This time she fired up, cuffing a foul plume of blue grey smoke out her exhaust pipe, and Carmine gasses the thing out of the semi permanent forest hovel he had been living in for the past few days, and piloted the van through underbrush and twigs to a small aggregate access road.
He had to get to a payphone, and he remembered seeing one in the parking lot on the opposite side of the lake near the pars course.
William Comparetto
© 2007