A Little Taste of Flash

I’ve been exchanging flash fiction with a friend (500 words or less), this was my first offering. Enjoy.

What to Say

They say Frank Palmaro married a dog. A chocolate lab with a sad drooping mouth. They say the chocolate Labrador’s name was Jezebel, and a wanton pup to say the least. Pictures were taken, wedding photos. I never saw them myself, but I heard about them and most stories were pretty much the same. Frank beamed in a gray tuxedo, complete with top hat and tales, and Jezebel with her almost blackish wagging tongue and a pristine white bonnet.

“I heard Mr. Palmaro married a real bitch,” I said one night at a bar named The Black & Blue. An easy joke followed by an easy laugh. Afterwards, I noticed Frank Jr. two tables over, he grumbled or sneered in my direction, and I expected a sock in the month most the night. It never came.

Dog in Tuxedo

They say Frank Palmaro was in it deep. With both the mob and the FBI. They say Frank Palmaro killed a no talent bookie with pinking shears and the blood spurted in almost heavenly raindrops. They say Frank planted the bomb in Victor Kerensky’s jacuzzi. Victor entertained two underwear models at the time, who had previously posed in the Asbury Park Press. He flip the switch for maximum bubbles and blamola, bras flickered in the wind. They say Vic blew up through his roof and ran around a man on fire.

I saw Frank once at my doctor’s waiting room. He was thin looking and sullen. He read Highlights Magazine and tittered to himself two or three time. Jezebel wasn’t with him and he was waiting for a ride. He probably had a mental examination where he “woofed” softly when asked how many days of the week. Maybe, he had rabies or ticks. A rectal exam or kidney stones. Frank Jr. arrived and nodded my way, neither friendly or angry, an acknowledgment of existence.

I saw Frank on TV. I was in my kitchen drinking a glass of water and not paying too much attention. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Frank was with his lawyer and smiling, laughing. His lawyer had been on television a lot lately, always stroking his black dyed goatee. They say his lawyer was a 1-800 kind of sleaze, but he was good and clever and rarely went to trial. They were talking in front of mics sporting various local network logos. Frank’s lawyer clasped his shoulder. Maybe, Frank and Jezebel will live happily ever after. Frank Jr. was behind them talking on his cell with only a hint of a smile.

I had seen Frank Jr. again at The Black & Blue. He stepped hard on my foot and looked at me like I was supposed to do something. I didn’t. My buddies say I’m a pussy. “Next time,” Frank Jr. said and I shrugged.

I stubbed out my cigarette and dropped it in my glass. The phone rang and startled. I switch off the TV and picked it up. It was my doctor results.

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