found drama

I meet them down by the seaside. Not a beach; boulders and cliffs for miles in both directions. The landscape and the temperature are both Maine but the skies and the bugs are all Florida. I’ve got the bag slung over my shoulder; it’s heavy and limp, the straps digging into my shoulder. I have a hard time picking my a path through some of these rocks but eventually I make it down into the little clearing we had discussed earlier. The rock cliffs are high on both sides. The wind rips hard through those formations like pursed lips blowing over a jug top. This is where we meet.

He’s taller than in pictures. His Arkansas drawl is seductive and playful and reassuring. We make a bit of small talk. I notice her lingering nearby, her back pressed up against the rock cliffs. She’s wearing an aggressive red suit; his is more conservative in color but has flamboyantly flared lapels. They’re quite the pair. He does all the talking but her eyes give away the agenda.

When we get down to business, they seem rather excited that I managed to get the bag here undetected. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal but they’re enthusiasm is enough to fill me with pride. I can’t wait for my pay-off, too. I catch her give him a look and he nods again to the bag (now on the ground and no longer digging bruises into my shoulder). I grab the zipper and it a tug — to reveal the severed head of Nancy Reagan. I take a quick step away and nearly vomit. I can barely make out her features. But that’s her alright. Again, I nearly vomit. He tells me to quit being a baby. I haven’t been spotted after all. He gives the bag a savage kick and lets loose a hearty, rolling laugh. They wouldn’t hang you for this even if they knew it was you… I back slowly away.

About Rob Friesel