Flash Friday 1-3-14 bait shop, belly, spit in Adjunct to 8/9/2013 flash friday; a trinity of flashs

Bait shop, belly, spit

He leaned out the window, the collar of his Duster flapping in the hot forty mile an hour air conditioning, and spat, leaning out further to see the pattern.

“Two blocks up take a right. There’s going to be a parking spot in a central Aisle, take the one west of the silver Saab.”

I bristled. I don’t take orders. I told myself I just wanted to see it play out then I was going to tell him all about himself. He had an aura of command about him, made every instinct of mine want to kick him out of my car and tell him the explicit details of how he should go about the task of fucking himself.

I took a right two blocks ahead and pulled into one of those strip centers that blacken the many eyes of the west end. A black jeep wrangler was pulling out of a spot just west of a silver Saab in the center aisle. He frowned, spat again, nodded to himself.

“Thought we were looking for a bait shop?” I said, coaxing the frayed gear box into neutral and yanking hard on the parking brake.

“There,” he pointed to the Gap.

“Fuck me.”

“Shut up, we’ve got maybe an hour,” he waited for me to object, curse or take a swing; I didn’t do any of those. “She has to be young, but not underage, she has to come willingly.”

“So, I should say ‘Hey, me and Van-Helsing-wannabe need some bait, whaddya say? I’ll getcha a tommy burger.’”

“You don’t say anything at all, you watch for attachments.”

“Don’t know what that means, I can’t see things.”

He sighed, “A parent, boyfriend, a herd of mates, they travel in packs you know, girls, sometimes. This isn’t a party, it’s a hunt.”

She was in the back opposite the dressing room. It’s an open blind spot in security; they concentrate on the dressing rooms, see how many clothes go in and count how many come out. She was stuffing a peach belly shirt into her out-sized purse.

“Will you come with me?” he asked her with that cop voice. Because, you know, all mall security wears Dusters and mutton chops.

She surrendered, scornfully and defiantly but without resistance. Nobody was paying any attention, not even the clerk. The peach belly shirt was still in her purse. Five miles up the 405 she asked where we were going. I shrugged. He didn’t do a god damned thing. Six miles up the 405 she started threatening what would happen if she wasn’t home in an hour; threatened cops, parents and the wrath of her allegedly vicious terrier Fluffy. Seven miles up the 405 she started screaming. He did not a god damned thing even harder. I turned up the radio “… Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel …” Morrison menacing from his grave five thousand miles away.