She boomed, squeezing off the last four shots in the revolver, “Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!”
She waved the gun, blasts cutting the palpable heat rising on the air. Inside Verde Park the kids screamed, fell, one by one as the errant bullets struck them.
Fuckin’ no good rotten kids!
Angel didn’t look back. He just kept running all the way to Washington Street where the metro light rail thrummed in place, its doors open. Had the train been waiting for him? He didn’t have time to consider it. Not that he cared, and jumped inside.
*****
The Ikea was both colossal and confusing. There was so much shit to buy, Brandy Ashton didn’t know where to begin. Some of the displays looked very modern to her, and hinted of a future that would leave her behind in the dust unless she bought something. Also, she noticed the only way to get through the store was by taking the longest route possible.
Brandy realized what the mad architects behind the maze were cleverly doing; resented them for it. Though it was her first visit to the store, she wondered why she had even bothered.
Finally, she settled on a Bolman 3-piece bathroom set, a Svalen bath towel (the one with the angry fish with the sharp teeth), and an Idealisk corkscrew. She had been saving an exquisite bottle of Beringer White Zinfandel all month, and bought some brie that morning to pair with the wine. Thinking on the wine paired with the cheese, she tingled.
But then she thought of the long bus ride home. The #65 bus she had taken from the metro light rail-how she would have to wait another ungodly amount of time on the bus going back. She thought again of the wine, the cheese, and everything was okay.
“Excuse me?” Brandy said to the girl at the work station. Her name was Erica according to her nametag.
Sullenly, Erica looked at Brandy.
“Can you help me?” Brandy finally said, wondering if she broke a two-by-four over Erica’s head, would it wake her up? “I have a question about that entertainment center over there.”
Erica glanced back at the copy of Cosmopolitan (underneath: Rolling Stone). She closed the magazine, as if helping Brandy was a waste of her time. The disdain was written on her pretty, young face: how dare she be bothered.
Brandy said, “How much is it? There’s no ticket on it.”
“Two hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Is it available?”
“Yes, but we don’t have the bottom doors in,” motioning to the bottom cabinets. “They won’t be in until Saturday. You’ll have to come back if you want them.”
