SNUFF (h.s.)

Chapter 03

Good Luck, Sucker!

Roseville was a place with lots of bustle going on. Every Saturday evening children would play football, jailbreak, piggy in the middle, prisoner's base or any other game that forces them to run around in a pack here and there hunting a ball while screaming and pushing each other. That was the rule. Most of the neighbors adored their tiny voices which didn't differ from a lullaby or a mystical consolation. They ran, they tripped, they staggered, they hit on backs and shoulders, they pulled the shirts and stretched them around the neck.

Knees and elbows bruised, blackened palms from the dusty ball, flushed faces from the agog joy and tiny-pointy strands would always stick on their sweaty foreheads. What if they were thirsty? The game was paramount – the game is all that matters. They would create a circle with the tip of their shoe next to each other so that someone could start singing and then find who's gonna be the unlucky champ. The song could be heard all over the backstreet, all the voices were merged into one unique and grandee;

"Your shoe is stinking like a badger!", the finger was pointing at a shoe in each syllable, "Put on a new one or-you'll-be-the-catcher!", screamed all together when the finger stopped at the unlucky champ's shoe. Laughter sparked with series of white teeth and gaps between them. The one-of-a-kind smiles, the halcyon, the happy-go-lucky ones. Their smiles were so big they could reach the edges of their eyes.

The children would create a line on the road with their bikes to stop the passing cars and when one of them appeared, all of them run like a whirlwind to put them aside while ringing their bells and the drivers saluted them. The passengers were jealous of their Saturday evening joy. Yet, the children never really envied their meetings. They preferred to talk about what movie might be on tonight as soon as they got home, made impressions of their teachers and complained about the pea they ate that looked more like rotten bunny floaters.

It was all fun and games until a car passed so fast that they didn't manage to turn around and look in time at their bicycles – it was already late. Their fancy bicycle wall was taken down, their rides were tossed here and there and one of them almost stuck under the car. It was a dark red Plymouth duster – as red as the blood pumping in their veins – with white leather seats; the most expensive car they could ever dream of had just destroyed their bicycles and they couldn't even admire its beauty.

The Man behind the wheel had a scornful and smug smirk along with a sardonic look on his face; he looked like a guy who's never smelled flowers or drank fresh, hand-made lemonade. He seemed to be the man who steps on sand castles, who scares the pigeons on the sidewalks and spits whenever a little grandma passes by on her way to the street market.

The kids were pretty sure that he's never played the harmonica and ratted on the students who smoked some joints in the toilet just for the fun of it. He was the kind of guy who lights the lighter under his front classmate's blue-jeans during the most boring lessons and destroys letterboxes with anything he could get his hands on; a bat was never interesting enough. He sometimes used an axe. He now had a Plymouth duster and had destroyed the kids' bicycles with it.

The Man returned after a while when they had forgotten all about him, he was walking unnoticed on the sidewalk hidden behind the staffed trees in the cement. Their bicycles were lying on the pavement in a funny line as if they had passed out or someone had put them to sleep until the time comes to ride them for the road races. The man stood over them with a peculiar smile; he took a quick look at the children then kneeled and blew the tires with a small dagger he grabbed out of his boot.

He used to wear an old pair of crimson cowboy boots. He believed that people should get what they deserve. What did he deserve? He hadn't given it much thought. Nor did he care to give it much thought since he didn't have the best opinion about himself – that's the truth – and that's why he wouldn't be surprised if someone would suddenly stab him in the back. He just made sure that he would press the blade in the flesh first... He would press it deep and he demanded them to look him in the eye.