Pulp Friday Comeback (PF 6)

I've made some edits to the previous installments of the Pulp Friday series and I'm trying to pick it back up. Obviously, today isn't Friday, so I'll just try to keep updating this, regardless of the day. It's still going to be Pulpy and it'll still be called Friday to keep to its roots. Now, back to the series.

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3
PF 4
PF 5

After giving Brian more bewilderment by abruptly leaving, I'm on my way to Welles Park, which is within 10 minutes walking distance of our building. Nice to know that whoever broke into my apartment hasn't gone far, but unsettling to get a call from them them right after receiving a photo of my dead wife mailed via cinder block delivery through front door.

The dusk is gathering as I walk east towards the park. The rain has stopped, but the gray still lingers and seems to latch on to the coming dark.

There’s very few people venturing out in this weather. Welles Park is huge and wide-open, but the drizzle will make this a pretty private meeting.

I’m hoping that, in the next few minutes, I’ll be able to make sense of what’s happened in the last half-hour. Getting smacked by my front door and finding a handkerchief with a photo of my (I think) dead wife sewn inside just before four cinder blocks crash through my apartment building’s front door is strange enough. Add that to my downstairs neighbor Brian overhearing a conversation I wish he hadn’t and a high-pitched voice telling me that I need to meet in Welles Park or something wouldn’t be good for my wife that I thought was dead. Top that with a photo of my wife (that I know is dead because I saw her die) attached to the cinder blocks and I can’t keep anything straight.

The street lights look purple instead of their usual dark pink. Is that from a blow to the head or the confusion of the events of today? Probably both. I could really use a little order and coherency at this point.

As I approach the tennis courts in Welles Park, I see three figures standing together in the center court. This would probably be the three people who broke into my apartment earlier today, but then I remember one person was being forcibly dragged out by the other two. Still hoping for order and sense.

I go through the gate to the courts. I head for the center court, where the three figures in black overcoats are standing with their heads down and their hands in their coat pockets. As I get to mid-court, one the figures says, “That’s far enough, dear.”

I stop and stare at the figures standing on the other side of the net, just beyond on the in-bounds line. No one says anything for a while. I wait for someone to serve.

I lose my patience and finally bark, “What’s this about?” I’d hoped to sound tough and intimidating, but when I say “about” my voice cracks like I’m the middle of puberty. I curse my genes for not making me taller, manlier, and more threatening.

The middle figure lifts its head a little bit, and I can see the same smirking mouth from earlier today.

The high-pitched voice coming from the smirking mouth says, “Well dear, it’s a little complicated. It was going to be easy, but somebody didn’t give me what I wanted and you broke with your normal work schedule. Both of you have made my work much too hard.”

I ponder how cryptic this is and say, “’Kay.” When none of the figures say anything, I add, “Sorry?”

The smirk gets a little wider. It says, “How sweet. But you know that won’t quite be enough, right?”

Hoping for a hard-biting, sardonic reply, I droll, “I didn’t expect so.” My latest attempt at toughness makes me sound like a stoner valley boy because I say “Ah didn’t expect so-wah.” Damn.

“Well, you’re a real pro then,” the sarcastic smirk says. “Here’s what I want from you.”

The two other figures take two steps toward the net and me, keeping the high-pitched smirking mouth between them. High-pitch smirk-mouth figure finally removes his hat, revealing a thin-faced, black-haired man with a daggered nose and wide ears. The smirk disappears and his face darkens. His formerly wide mouth now looks like a beak. It’s strange to see the full face matching the voice. Then he speaks again, and the pitch seems higher and more piercing, like a field mouse as talons sink into its flesh.

“You’re going to clean up the mess you made in Maui.”

I was afraid he’d say this. Depending on how much my neighbor Brian heard, I may have to kill him if I live through this.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 7
PF 8
PF 9