Yesterday I Could Sing

“Get outta my way!” screamed a panic-stricken kid who burst through solid oak doors, savagely knocking anyone aside with the misfortune to be standing in his way. The boy’s pace was so eager and escape so determined that the grease-slick coils of his long hair snapped violently with the wind.

Not far in the distance, a disproportionate looking fat man dressed in a tight, single-buttoned suit and blocked Stetson reluctantly struggled after him, begging pardons as he side-stepped many of the fallen. Ahead, a granite wall spelled an apparent end of the line, however, the desperately fleeing lad with terror fashioned in his eyes made an incredible pivot and raced for the depths of a congested stairwell. Agonizing moans marked his turbulent descent as he indiscriminately scaled the tops of shoulders and backs, literally fighting his way to the lobby below.

Although awkward about his feet, the ailing man with the determined pursuit appeared almost graceful the way he maneuvered his enormous size through a melee of angered folks.

“C’mon you decrepit bastards! Faster!” he swore at a pair of wing-tipped oxfords that seemed to deliberately tangle with each exasperating step.

He understood precisely what failure meant if the boy managed to make it outside of the building. There he would be forced into a foot race that he stood absolutely no chance of winning. Fortunately for him though, his second wind kicked in and a surge of new air inflated his lungs. He grunted and snorted like a Brahma bull, then in a motion akin to some raving lunatic, he started yelling to the masses that he was coming through.

“Move it sombitchin’ legs! Don’tcha give out on me now!” he demanded of flesh, muscle and bone that had not been pushed this hard since an army reserve campaign back in ’55. The pain was excruciating, but he steadied his eyes anyway to keep sight of a head that bobbled up and down like a far off beacon. Sadly, the distance between them widened considerably as he began to tire from the insistent pace. His gauge was close to empty now, nevertheless, he secured his hat snuggly to his head and tried to summon one final charge.

“Gotta make it – know I gotta!” he panted and spat, spewing an assortment of incomprehensible profanities. “If by chance you listenin’ pal, how ‘bout a hand, huh?” was his plea to a god that he had never entirely placed his faith in before.

Through the dense hallway they ran, weaving in and out of a maze of perplexed spectators. Now the boy’s capture had become more of an obsession than any thing – some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy that he had not lost the ability. So he waged himself on until a sudden sharp pain sliced through his chest and his knees started to bobble, and his tongue had swollen so thick that he had trouble just keeping it in his mouth. It was pitiful how he clenched at nothing but the wind and just as pathetic the way the saliva dried then crusted to his lips. He suddenly imagined that another step would certainly kill him, but even then the stubborn man refused to surrender the chase as they darted between rows of cars across the parking lot and far into the night. He kept him in sight as they sped pass the outdoor trinket and junk vendors. With reckless abandon, the boy threw trashcans and other obstacles in his path but amazingly, the man hurdled them all like an Olympic athlete, incredibly landing still in stride. Around the corner they ran, far away from the noises of the city until they reached an alley at Wilder's Bend where this kid seemed to suddenly vanish, virtually into thin air. Baffled, the exhausted man knelt to his knees and sucked in air then coughed up a little bit of phlegm. Then there was dead calm. Carefully he drew his revolver from its shoulder holster and quickly surveyed the perimeter. That scan produced absolutely nothing and he was angered by his misfortune, so he dusted his hat against his thigh then turned to leave. Suddenly however, the sound of someone stepping on broken glass invaded the silence.

“Well God damn boy… Figured you had to be some kinda Harry Houdini sombitch to slip me like this. And we both know that ain’t the case, right?” he spoke to the demure figure partially exposed in the shadows. “What’s that? Hey, where’d you get that – ”

Everything happened so fast that the blast and the force seemed like a single motion, and his massive body was thrown violently to the earth, blood spewing profusely from a gaping hole that had been savagely torn through his neck. As he lay there clutching that wound, unable to neither speak nor determine the figure that hovered above him, life was slowly departing. The sound of another click made by the cylinder’s recoil spelled the inevitable, leaving him no time to beg or plead for his life – not even a moment to curse his dreadful predicament; so he closed his eyes and prepared himself to meet his maker.