Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

Leave Some Room for Dessert

It was about a month after the separation (not divorce, yet, though the word had been floated between mom and dad for several weeks leading up to them living apart). Dad had always been a casual cook - a requirement with mom needing to be gone so often on business trips. Maybe it was an attempt to make things nice with a son who'd already stopped talking to him weeks before. Maybe it was just boredom and the desire to eat something besides fried fish or canned SpaghettiOs. Whatever the impulse, dad had decided to invest his hard earned cash in a rack of brisket and a twelve pack of Coke. Way before internet and Bobby Flay, dad had found a "tried and true" recipe in the back of Good Housekeeping (mom's subscription, he'd insisted.) Four hours in the oven, later, Shawn and Gus had been bellowed in from the treehouse to eat. It had been a disaster. Whether from reading the instructions wrong or because of their ancient oven, the meat had been reduced to a stringy mess of grease and charred bits. Chewy rather than tender, they'd muscled their way through about three bites before dad had grabbed their forks away and announced a trip to Kentucky Fried Chicken.

It was that texture that came back the most, now. Salty, greasy, and tough - a flavor that sat on the tongue and stuck in the teeth. And, over it all, the proud encouragement in foreign words.

It was there, now, as rabid pain tore at his throat. Shawn had seconds to buck his hips when Daniel lunged - teeth crushing vocal chords; cutting into the thin stream of air. Molars ground against his neck and his jaw cracked wide, silent, as Daniel twisted his jaw; tearing deep.

His legs the only limbs sorta free, Shawn twisted until he could get his left one loose - twisting again, charged up with panic, to wedge his knee into Daniel's side. Blotches of spotty dark were humming against the edges of his eyes as the teeth started to crush down on his windpipe. Open gape of his own teeth, wrists tugged at the grip grinding the bones together.

Dammit, he was not going to die like this!

~-~-~

"Son of a bitch!"

Juliet was shouting in the background and two officers had corralled Guster; dragging him out of the circle of mayhem that had just fucking exploded!

Weapon lifted, then lowered, time and again. Instinct straining against common sense. Impossible shot even if Spencer wasn't in the line of fire from every angle. Too distant - too dark. No matter what he did, Spencer was going to die.

"Shit!"

O'Hara was back - her own weapon drawn and pointing at the ground. "A taser..."

"Already thought of it; won't reach!" Shit, shit! Oh!

Eyes popped wide; but no time to talk it out other than to stare at his partner even as he was churning his feet backwards - back towards the car.

"Carlton, what...?"

He ran - bypassing Guster who was locked in a frantic phone call - easy money who was on the other end of the line. Dammit!

Forgotten weapon shoved in its holster he tore his pocket ripping his keys free - nearly gouging the paint from the truck when the key skipped across the lock on his first attempt. Finally wrestling his way inside, he shoved aside two vests to fumble out one of several square boxes stored beneath.

Emptying his weapon of its current load, he reloaded in under thirty seconds, despite the tremble in his fingers. Slapping the magazine back into place, he grabbed the half emptied box and scrambled back towards the garden.