[RENA HANDS]

A near seven-foot mammoth with a surfer’s attributes strolled hand in hand with his female companion. She stood at his chiseled breast with flaxen straight hair. Each had excessive piercings in their ears, and their arms were covered with tattoos, but I could not identify them from my angle. His wallet-bulging khakis and her stonewashed jeans pushed against each other with every step they made.

Salty french fry, burrito, ice cream and soft drink smells suffocated the air. Although the mall’s air conditioner was on full blast, the odors of simmering, baking and poured beverages flooded the atmosphere. Three shoe department units and four lingerie boutiques were passed before he finally decided to enter the Fish’n Tackle shop.

This giant wandered down three aisles of plastic and neon baits before taking notice of me. I kicked off my sandal, striking the side of his head. “What the hell?” He picked up my shoe and sauntered in my direction.

“Is this your flip-flop?”

I responded with a peck on his cheek informing him that it was. Then I grabbed at his right shoulder, placing the golden sandal onto my left foot. My actions were a bit wobbly enough to press my lifted yet separated breasts against his twitching pectoral muscles.

As I released his shoulder, my hand sliding down his arm, I spotted his bolded engraved markings. It was a rather plain, black outline of Doc Martens boots, universal military boots. I lingered with my caressing contact. A short, black female employee disrupted us. She was aged but her face was without wrinkles, her Victorian up do streaked with salt-and-pepper strips.

“May I help you?” she inquired. Her hands were held together as if in a prayer.

I pulled the titan away from the salesclerk, and we were off to the parking lot.

The girlfriend and time itself was abandoned.

The charge of adrenaline coursed through my veins. My eyes widened. My ears, once cooled by late Fall winds, were consumed by a burning heat only noticeable to myself. I dragged this fiend, digging, securing my nails deep into his muscular arm. He would soon be isolated and defenseless. Very soon he would fall deeper into my trap.

A joint I carried was lit to christen our meeting. We shared it a while before we would play our trailing game. We would play a game of cat and mouse for hours, he in his 1971 cobalt Mustang and myself in a 1963 Navy blue Corvette.

We circled the back roads of the city, along miles and miles of swamp land of thick, heavily leafed drenched trees and high moist ferns all speckled by bands of the mid afternoon sunlight.

The young man, looking exhausted and in need of rejuvenation, halted at a traffic light. He was completely oblivious to my presence as I pulled up along side him. He was listening to the lyrics of “Kim” performed by the whiter rapper Eminem.

Aww look at daddy's baby girl
That's daddy baby
Little sleepy head
Yesterday I changed your diaper
Wiped you and powdered you.
How did you get so big?

His greasy fingers tapped the polished front window of the Mustang; a half smoked joint hung from his ashen mouth. His tapping accelerated as the following lyrics played. His head thrashng and fingers fiddling hastened as he amplified the following lyrics.

Don't make me wake this baby
She don't need to see what I'm about to do
Quit crying bitch, why do you always make me shout at you?
How could you?

I withdrew my Watermelon Splash lip gloss from my black, Brighton Terry handbag, and proceeded to reapply a second coating to my faded lips. I observed for a moment this entertaining head bashing scene. His fingers slammed harder with each rhythmic beat, stamping an even greater oily blemish on the front windshield.

The joint that lingered in his mouth suddenly fell into his lap as the lip gloss that I tossed at him smacked him on the side of his head. In a frantic response to the fallen, burning Ganja, he ducked down under the driver’s wheel, searching the floor mat.

“Shit! Where is it?”

He pulled the right corner of the mat down and found nothing. He pulled back the upper left corner of the mat and found nothing. He unbuckled himself, lifting the floor rug from under his feet…

I seized this opportunity and removed the fully loaded 9mm handgun from the glove compartment, then crept as quietly as possible towards him. I grabbed his ear, placed the barrel into his canal and pulled the trigger once. His bloodied head fell back against his seat; a small river of blood rushed forth from the wound. I was not satisfied with this singular shot as my anger and frustration could not easily be quelled. I aimed the barrel of the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger twice more.

I alone heard the gunshots. Displayed lights of the nearby shoe stores shone blindly. In comparison, the flickering lights of the closed banks rebounded off the gun as I slid it back into the glove compartment of my car. The traffic light changed from cherry red to pea green.

I was late for dinner.

[xtremelady]

Description; this is both your strength and weakness – you produce some brilliant vivid images in one’s head – how the woman entices – uses her sexuality to lead her targets/victims to their doom. The scene setting lovely....on the other hand in some places I get a little lost as to movements and how some of the interaction plays out.

Character; she is nicely defined, through her actions mainly and responses, plus the males reaction to her. She has strength resolve and purpose. You have left it quite cleverly for the reader guess at her motivation....which at this point could be anything.

Plot; this area is strong...one wants to read to learn the how the mystery will unfold, leaving one with curiosity, and the thirst to learn more.

Don’t get too bogged down with technicalities, as long as the story is interesting and holds a reader’s attention, you have an edge....everything else can be rectified as your skills develop and be improved on.

Really hope you continue with this story.

[Vorcla]

Whoa. She's cold! BLAM! I shot him in the head; he's dead, and I'm late for dinner! Wicked, RENA! I had to chuckle at the "lifted and separated" comment about her breasts; reminds me of an old bra commercial. The irony was delicious, whether intended or not. Nice job.