The Alphabet Challenge: “E” Story No. 2 of 3 — “Endowments”

This is the fifth round of The Alphabet Challenge mentioned in THIS post. As a refresher, the Broxson twins, Gary and Perry, and I will each write one story for each letter of the alphabet. Meaning, a story whose title begins with the given letter. For these submissions, it’s the letter “E”.

Readers have until the publication of the next round of stories (about two weeks between rounds) to vote for their favorite story in the current round. Points will be assigned to each writer based on total votes received.

In each round, the story with the most votes gets three points. Second place gets two points, third place gets one point. In the case of a tie, the points for the tied rankings are added and then split equally among the writers who tied. At the end of the year, we tally up and crown the winner with the most points.

Long or short, each story will appear on its own post and the trio will be followed by a fourth post where readers can vote.

Here we go. Presented anonymously, the second of three stories with titles beginning with the letter “E” as submitted by its author.

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WARNING: some of the stories deal with adult themes and events (somewhere between PG and R rating). Plus, one might encounter the occasional use of the more colloquial word for fornicate.
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Endowments

Copyright 2020 — Gary Broxson

(767 words – approx. reading time: about 3 minutes based on 265 WPM)

Terrance slipped from the rumpled bed and cat-toed into the bathroom humming Afternoon Delight by some one-hit band, brought up only on trivia night. The kitschy chorus and his bladder business were interrupted by a languid voice from the adjacent room. “Terry-baby, be a sweetheart and grab my purse out of my car. Then come back to bed and give me some more of your big black mamba.” She made a silly hissing sound and giggled.

“Yes, dear.” Already she had him pussy whipped, Terrance thought. Terrance had grown up in the shadows but he was not a thug. When confronted on the streets, Terrance would disarm the gang bangers with a beguiling smile and a witty tagline, I’m a lover, not a fighter. He despised all the ‘isms’ attributed by society and often wondered, perhaps naively, why everyone couldn’t just get along.

Hanging on pegs were “his” and “hers” bathrobes. Terrance reached for “his” and a guilt grenade exploded in his conscience. “His” was not actually his. So instead he opted for “hers.” Silky, pink and tea-length, it was more lingerie than bathrobe. Terrance synched it at the waist, examined himself in the bathroom mirror and found himself giggling too, his fleeting guilt forgotten.

Always hungry after good loving, Terrance grabbed a golden brown chicken wing from the fridge enroute to his errand. He recognized it as a jumbo, double-battered wing from Dixie Pig, his favorite. Holding the cold chicken in one hand, Terrance opened the front door. He squinted into the bright yellow sunlight and tiptoed down the plantation porch stairs to the green Prius parked in the carport.

Half-dozing, Jessica whispered into an empty glass of red wine for Terry to watch out for the front door, it locks automatically. Barry White soothed her back to sleep as her teacup pup, Fuzzy Wuzzy, smelled chicken, bounded off the foot of the bed, and began to roam.

Barefoot and wrapped in Jessica’s pink bathrobe, like licorice in cellophane, Terrance stepped on Mr. Potato Head’s mustache hidden in the lush lawn, like a tiny booby trap. He howled, hopping on one foot like a flapping flamingo, partly in pain and partly in shame, realizing that Jessica probably had a four-year-old secret in daycare. Limping to the Prius, Terrance tried the key fob. Nothing. He examined it and noted the distinctive peace sign of a Mercedes. He had grabbed the wrong keys off the hook, perhaps “his” extra set.

Terrance could see the red Gucci purse lying on the backseat. He jiggled the door handle hoping it might be unlocked. The car alarm screamed bloody murder, Terrance froze, then bounded back up the porch steps. Still holding the forgotten chicken wing in one hand, he attempted to twist the front doorknob—locked solid. Terrance, now concerned, thumbed the bell and pounded on the sturdy oak door; the welcome mat mocked him.

The little white dog went insane inside the house, barking and spinning in circles. Jessica pulled the pillow over her head and dreamed of her youth, back before the milieu of marriage, homemaking and motherhood had bleached all the color out of her. An aspiring artist while in college, Jessica would do anything to imbue some color back into her drab life, even if it meant bedding a handsome black man she had met at the studio. He had been a sketch model for the students and seemed to have no inhibitions. Jessica dreamed on, even as a patrol car switched on its blue strobes and siren, adding exponentially to the cacophony.

Guns drawn, the officers used the black-and-white’s PA: “Perp, get your hands up!”

Terrance turned to the police. The car alarm whooped, the little dog barked, the officers ordered him to put down the gun. What gun? Terrance’s mind screamed, nearing panic.

“Shut the fuck up, Fuzz!” Terrance shouted at the yapping dog behind the door. With his hands up high he suddenly realized two things: “Hers” bathrobe was hiked up to his navel and the cold chicken wing in his grasp was unquestionably the gun in question. Reflexively, Terrance quickly lowered his hands to cover his big black mamba.

A pink-face rookie took the shot. When the blue smoke from the revolver dissipated, Terrance King, son of Rodney King, became a statistic. As he bled out on Jessica and Dave’s beige welcome mat, wearing a pink bathrobe and holding a chicken wing, the car alarm quit, Fuzzy Wuzzy stopped barking, and the cruiser’s siren ceased. In the sunshine and silence Terrance pulled in one last breath and released it as a laugh.

The End

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