DEVEREAUX FEVERED DREAMS ATOP WAYNE COUNTY SEAMS Flash Fiction 434 Words “I’ve got to get out in…

DEVEREAUX FEVERED DREAMS ATOP WAYNE COUNTY SEAMS Flash Fiction 434 Words “I’ve got to get out in front of it,” Big Sally said with a grunt, and a moment later, her gargantuan boot rapidly performed two vicious arcs, the first sinking into her cousin’s scrawny side, where it spiderwebbed a trio of ribs (the coroner’s chicken scratch would illustrate the pound-per-inch maliciousness two days later), the second snapping off a canine before crashing into his temple, spreading his flaccid bulk upon the dining room floor rug, a gift from Big Sally’s boss’s wife–a garish purple faux pas nightmare with golden snitches weaved in. “Happy birthday, honey,” the dizzy, wide-eyed bitch had said through a grin that looked like a croissant embellished with stripes of off-brand icing, which repulsed Big Sally, who’d from childhood thought that croissants looked like fresh turds on even the hungriest days. A decade of brunches and cocktail soirees, but somehow, Bonny was lost when it came to the intricacies of being Big Sally, though she’d referred to herself as “The best friend!” from their initial interaction, a community service luncheon in the basement of Gawd’s House, Devereaux Way’s church. There’d been neckbones and elbow macaroni, fruit platters, green bean cassorolle, macaroni and cheese, catered in by a classy, downhome outfit called Mac & Cheese Ministry, pigs in blankets, cabbage rolls, and croissants. “Croissants,” Big Sally had said, her nose wrinkled, her chin atremble, “…like turds. Look at them.” She’d pointed at a tottering silver tray of zaatar-stuffed horrors, aimed a disgusted gaze at Bonny, grimaced. “The French have birthed many great ideas, but bread fashioned to look like shit? Only the French.” Staring down at Theo, her mother’s sister’s eldest child, Big Sally whispered, “I’m as mad about Potter as a black woman can be, but c'mon…snitch patterns? How is this fucking thing unique?” Ten minutes later, after a weak-chinned attempt to revive her freshman kill, Big Sally (Sally Ghana by birth, Sally Shevchenko by the rite of “Holy fucking matrimony”) found herself huffing and puffing the corpse down her home’s basement stairs (Sherman Shevchenko was a brawny, balding, Shrinking Violet of a man who knew naught of success beyond the petty degradation of the accomplishments of others, and this had resulted in the construction of a home containing a basement sporting three flights of stairs), four steps at a time. When she reached the top of the first flight, she cursed, (FUCK!), armed sweat from her brow, and heaved the body into space. When the body hit the cemented floor, it burped. Big Sally, never mind the net of pain that had begun to constrict her lower left jaw, laughed.