My Cardboard Balcony

Yikes by Belinda Roddie A guaranteed way to give me the "Yikes" syndrome - the shoulder squeezing cringe, the ripple of unwelcome goosebumps, and the slight veinous twitch in the lower region of my left eye - is to walk to my table when I am holding hands with my girlfriend and ask me, "Hey, man, do you lease that babe out?" And I swear, once I'm over the "Yikes" syndrome, I launch straight into the "Die" zone, no parachute, and waste a perfectly good glass of cider on your pseudo-designer shirt (and stick a few pieces of glass into your ribcage as well).

"Where did he go?" "Just south of the border, ma'am." "What did he have?" "Bike and a bag, ma'am." The sheriff spat, harshly, into the dry grass. She could hear her hot saliva crackle as it made contact with the fire-prone foliage, half-expecting a spark, and looked at her deputies. "Find him by nine o'clock tonight," she warned, "or I will beat you senseless and find him myself."