Hickory, ash, and warmth. I stirred sleepily, and grabbed my white-hot knees, pulling myself into a cozy ball. I opened my eyes, and there he stood.
DeAngelo Williams was as white-bred as toasted wheat. He popped his Ralph Lauren collar and tucked in his Lacoste sweater. Leaning over me, he shoved me with a loafer and grinned.
“Wakey-wakey asshole,” he whispered, moving his hands from his back. I backed away and into a tattered and reclined chair as he brandished a hot poker. I yelled out.
“Woah, woah, woah, watch where you poke that!”
He strode forward and I looked for a way out. I had been smart enough to corner myself between an armchair, a heavy endtable, and a drug dealer with a melee weapon. I threw the endtable at him and he stumbled back.
I scrambled in the direction of a chewed couch and hoped their was an exit.
- The Flightless Murder Pt. 2 (mutedbutpresent.wordpress.com)