Then—blammo—the plane crashes into history. Fire and smoldering bits of metal rain down, but our Watcher, he doesn’t even bother to look.
People scream all down the street. The smell of torched jet fuel crawls into our sinuses.
The pulsating sheets flip off to reveal an expensive pair of breasts, we’re talking real skin Ferraris.
Our jump belts vibrate, but that vibration just makes the Watcher trigger, trigger all over the bear-sized mink, and it’s too late to Boy Scout the scene.
He said the cat never crossed the street until that day.
Because you can’t un-die Princess Di.
Andrew would like people to know the following:
By day, Andrew Rutledge works as a freelance Creative Director writing ads for gaming industry clients like Microsoft and Blizzard. But at night (and before-the-sun-comes-up mornings) this Hoosier native writes short stories while banging out a draft of his upcoming novel. Just never ask him what the word Hoosier actually means. That’s a story for another time. You can find his short stories here. Or drop him a note here.