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"Chocolate Kid"

June 6, 2017

     Early evening, the red sun rose.  Slowly, it broke above the blue ocean.  Not far from the beach, scrawny chickens scratched soil.  As they squawked, two, rough, middle-aged men in ragged clothing silently shinnied down steps of an old, rickety, three-story boarding house.

 

     “She’s not here, yet—still hanging clothes outside.”

 

     Big eyes peeped from the bannister.

 

     “Good.  Sniff, sniff.  Smell those sweet biscuits,” a thin, wiry man said and squatted.  “In the kitchen, they’re hot on the stove.”

 

     “Um, yeah,” a heavier man groaned.  He smiled.  He rubbed his thick face with his black beard-stubble likely rough as forty-grit sandpaper.  Uncombed, dark curly hair tossed atop his head.  “Quickly Snitch, grab some grub,” a gruff voice called.  “Come on,” the man said; and he crept like a silent fox might steal hens.

 

     “Doggone, Goon.”  The thin man whispered.  He wiped his long wiggly nose and made quiet, careful steps.  “Do we really have to leave?  I was just getting used to a soft bed.”

 

     “We have to high-tail it, Snitch,” the bigger, thick man said.  “We’re outta cold cash.  We already owe from last week.”

 

    The slight, bedraggled man scratched long, blonde, thin hairs as he held a worn, cloth, carry-bag.  Each took steps.  Breakfast goodies made them drool as though they were Dachshunds.  “Yeah, but…”

 

     “Aw.  Grab your biscuit, jelly, too.  Get whatever you can.  We’ll find our fortune soon enough,” the heavyset man grumbled. 

 

     “Okay,” the thin man said.  Nimble hands plucked plump, link sausages.

 

     “Our luck has to turn, Snitch.”  The man gobbled two sausage biscuits faster than a giant gopher could gobble grouse eggs.  “Ugh,” he mumbled.  “Stuff your pea-picking pockets.  We’re going to…”

 

     “Hey!  What are you doing?”  From outside, a chunky, older lady shouted and came toward the door.

 

     “Oh, oh.  Landlady.  She’s seen us from the window, Goon,” the thin man, blurted.  His eyes bulged.

 

     “Yep.  We’ve gotta run, Snitch.”  The heavier, rough-cut man jerked.

 

     Down the hall, out the front door, feet of two ruffians pounded a dirt pathway like aging greyhounds might race.  Zoom.

 

     “Hey!  Come back here!”  The woman chased to the front porch.  “You owe me rent!”

 

     “Huh, huh,” the heavy man puffed.  “Beat it to the train, Snitch.  Uncle Jack owes me a favor and my old car’s still there.  Baby, baby, who stole my baby.  My shiny baby, we’ll get her going.”

 

    

“Bad Boys Theme from Cops”


Bad boys, bad boys
Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do
When they come for you
(Repeat)
(You’re too bad, you’re too rude)
(You’re too bad, you’re too rude)
Bad boys, bad boys
Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do
When they come for you
(Repeat)

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