Chapter I: The Passing
Threatening groans escaped the steep stairs as he thumped downward, footsteps reminiscent of the subsequent crackles of thunder outside. While he rested his hands and stomach on his knees, he exhaled several shaky breaths. Bob slapped his right cankle and moved again to brave the path to the kitchen through the crinkled double-pounder wrappers and sweat-stained socks. When the bag of potato chips on the counter saw him, it deflated instantaneously. He licked his cracked lips. The bag slipped out of his greasy, salty fingers several times before he popped them open. They cried out with a squeak.
Hobbling over to the couch, he sat down to watch some TV. A resounding crunch widened his drooping eyes, but he had already eaten all the potato chips. Odd, he thought. A loud, gargling fart vibrated in the stagnant air. “Excuse me. I passed gas.”
His salivating tongue curled to the side of his parted mouth, and the curtains of his vision closed to black. He planned to watch the next episode of the show tomorrow.
A series of knocks rattled the door with the oomph of a punch rather than the tap of a knuckle. “Hello?” a strong voice called out.
A bead of cold sweat ran down his neckbeard, and he lifted his eyelids from a deep sleep to look around. He noticed a half-empty pickle jar among the clutter strewn across the table, indicative of a thief. “Must have been my roommate.” Beefy sausage fingers slipped into the thick fabric of his pants pocket and retrieved his phone. The time read eleven in the morning. Clash of Villages said his Chieftain Hall level thirteen upgrade was ready, so he immediately rushed the process with twenty dollars worth of fairy coins. Bob nestled his back rolls into the sofa and gazed at the ceiling. “My last alliance will regret kicking me out."
Bang, bang, bang. “Open up! This is Officer Horace with the police department.”
A flash of lightning illuminated the room in a blue hue. Did the landlady finally get the nerve to evict him? No, that old lady could only bark. “Hold on.” He swallowed his tongue. “I’m coming.”
He unlocked the rusty deadbolt and faced a gleaming badge as he opened the door. The reflected light from the chintzy overhang beamed into his eyes. Pickle juice swam up the canal of his throat, and he craned his neck upward with a squint.
Looking Bob up and down, the policeman's superhero jawline dropped to give a clear view of the back of his throat. Then, a poorly contained smirk wandered across his visage. “We, uh, received a complaint about"--Horace coughed--"a smell coming from your apartment.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know it's coming from here?” Bob massaged his smooth belly with his index finger.
The trooper donned a short-sleeve, navy blue uniform which exposed two crossed arms that sprouted black hair like patches of wild grass. His pudgy eyebrows traveled up his forehead.
“Can't you see I'm busy?” A tidal wave of heat washed against the banks of his head despite the unwavering breeze of the corridor. He leaned against the hard open door with a creak. Shiny black boots clomped past him.
“It'll only be a…” The steps slowed. A hairy hand swiftly grasped the radio on the left side of his torso. “I need another officer down here.”
Radio static resounded before a woman replied. “10-4. A second unit is on its way.”
“Get on the ground!” He turned on his heel and brandished a taser. “And put your hands behind your back!”
In the corner of his eye, past the readied weapon, he registered a figure sprawled across the couch: a short, tan man whose pupils rolled backward to face his forehead. Two large pancake-shaped indents caved into a velvety green button-up shirt, which loosely wrapped around his small sunken torso. Bob ordered the gift in the wrong size, but his roommate shrugged it off with a grin. ‘I can wear it when it gets cold,’ he said.
Stinging flames singed the insides of his nose and sucked the moisture from his eyes. Bob met a set of constricted amber pupils fixated on him; the golden speckles warned him. His thick saliva tasted sour as he rolled it into his gullet with his tongue. Was it the pickles? Perhaps he did eat them. His cankle spasmed.
“No!”
It was too late; he was already running. His knees crunched. Piss-tinged walls flew past him. The back of his thighs rhythmically swayed up and descended with a clap against his calfs. Door 212. Door 210. He felt something bite his left ear. A metal taser prong dove onto the carpet next to him.
Clomp, clomp, clomp. “Stop!” Clomp, clomp. “Stop!”
Door 208. Door 206. Ba-dum, ba-dum. Door 204. His heart thrashed inside the cage of his skull, seeking an escape. He glanced over his shoulder to witness all 300 tonnes of Officer Horace lunge forward. Bob winced, and his back recoiled with a jiggle. He stumbled. The failed linebacker turned policeman, with a sickening smack, faceplanted on the floor.
The drumming of footsteps ascended the flight of stairs in front of him. He froze.
“Horace!” A brunette cop.
Door 204. Unlocked. He barreled through it. Spotless, the counters blinded him. He flopped past it and shoved the screen door to the side. White blinds swayed from the movement. Predators approached. He was the buffalo; they were hunters. The stampede goes forward.
“Don’t do anything stupid, dude.”
“That’s funny.” He gripped the flimsy porch railing. The waterfall of sweat cascading down his back itched. “I never was the smartest.”
The police rushed forward. Bob’s sagging rear-end awkwardly saddled the cheap, plastic white railing, failing to hoist his leg over the top. Horace latched onto the slippery loose limb with both arms. “You’re not going anywhere.” With each word, he spat.
Bob bucked him like an irate horse, and Officer Horace flopped around following his movements, imitating a fish out of water. He flashed a look over his shoulder to his brunette co-worker for help. She stepped forward, holstering her taser with a grimace. Creak.
The Chinese porch fencing interrupted their altercation with a whine. Support pillars pasted onto the wooden planks teetered and listed like a drowning cruise liner. Bob watched the sizable gulp travel down Horace’s underequipped throat pipe. returning a gaze to his partner for the final time. She stretched an arm out as they fell.
