I thought I recognized you… *mother*. Now talk before my finger gets itchy.”
“Talk to Cory. Talk to Cory!” she defended herself, panicking to get out of the crosshairs.
She meant Austin of course. Austin knew everything, or at least a whole whole lot. Enough to survive any firing of questions.
Or was it Eckert. Peter?
Knowing mother most likely had an aunt or two packed away in her back pocket, Dinner Girl called for reinforcements, which meant W since no one else really wanted the job, none of the other cores that is. Plus she wanted to buy some clothes from the freebie stall this particular realtor of the lower central northeast sector of Corsica had set up ’round back, maybe a summer dress or a pair of sandals or a straw hat. Something that started with an S to go along with the hissing of summer snakes. So I guess we’re dealing with a Joanie.
Make that Hidi.
Dinner Girl covered her while she went around the corner to shop. Play before work, she always said.
As she perused the contents of a box full of swimsuits, red tie donned Jefferson Thomas studied her intently, wondering if she was a member of Pot-D or Pan-Z or perhaps both. Like himself.
“You there!” Dinner Girl called over, spotting the threat. “Back away from the hamburger girl!” Mother took the chance to hightail it out of here herself but was gunned down in crosswalk, a distraction that allowed JT to escape with the girl. Like they had it planned all along; sacrifice for the greater good and all.
15 hours later, a rose holding bride posed for a picture outside the house across the road, just wedded again to the late great Jeffrey Phillips. “It was the only way to bring him back,” she lamented later to a broken-hearted Kolya back in Nautilus or thereabouts, his lemonade gone stale again.