2.d.xxii
The bossman
held a flannel shirt he’d swiped from a discount bin over his face. He was not about to inhale this stuff. The dust stung his eyes and he contemplated a
detour through the athletic department to check for swimming goggles, but it
was taking far too long for him to locate codename: The Bull – aka Corporate
Man – as it was. Think about what the
possible composition of the brownish dust might really be seriously unnerved
him.
And then he
spotted his target.
The bossman’s
eyes flared. This allowed more of the
reddish-brown dust to land on his exposed eyeballs causing excessive blinking
and tears. He should have narrowed his
eyes. The desired effect would have been
similar and far more appropriate considering the airborne circumstances.
Corporate Man
was near the woman, subject: Ms. Adams.
He was stooping, trying to pick up a box of, what looked like, freezer
bags. She was waving around a twenty
dollar bill in a manner that was quite tawdry.
Both had their
backs turned toward him.
This should be
easy.
There was a
cessation of those strange exploding sounds, the ones that signaled the eruption
of greed-tentacles, and released this dreadful dust. But then there was another sound. A deranged wailing, war cry of a sound.
The bossman
turned and the last thing he saw before three of his ribs snapped was a
terrifying image of a pasty, bare legs, pumping madly as a screaming man-boy
wearing shorty shorts crashed into him.
