The fat man trudged down Monroe Street, a long, disintegrating strip of toilet paper stuck to the heel of his left boot. He moved slowly, his large girth hindering any swift or sprightly movements. The rain fell, hard, while thunder echoed from dark clouds and bursts of lightning electrified the otherwise somber late day setting. In the distance, sirens from multiple sources wailed long and low, their respective vehicles advancing in outer directions, away from the heart of the city.
Shades were drawn on the tenement windows and the glow from overhead lights could be seen from some of the third floor apartments. Otherwise, accentuated by the angry storm, the streets were quiet and empty. Forlorn. Duane, the cluelessly obese man, crossed the street against a red light, unconcerned. There was no traffic to warrant either caution or care. His lightweight jacket, soaked through from the rain, clung to his large frame like Saran Wrap enveloping a roasted chicken. He simply did not care.
Before long, the wind started to pick up and Duane felt a chill as the temperature began to fall. The storm’s fury intensified and soon a blast of cold air nearly knocked him off his feet. Duane continued on, moving forward against the fierce gale, sadly determined to see this through. He owed her that much at least.
Another challenge! Several fun writing and photo challenges are scattered throughout The Land of Blog and on occasion, I’m inspired to participate. Today is one of those days.
This Six Word Story Challenge, hosted by Nicola on the Sometimes Stellar Storytelling blog, can be found here and the prompt is the word Wicked. Here is the entry I submitted:
Scathing innuendos never really hurt anyone.
Johnny was quite the tough guy, or so he thought himself to be. With his cigarette dangling just so and the sleeves of his grungy white t-shirt rolled up above his quasi-impressive biceps, this wanna-be JD strode toward the jukebox with what he hoped resembled an imposing swagger. Stopping to deposit a three-quarter inch stem of ashes from the Marlboro that was fixed between his teeth, he dropped in the requisite coins and selected P-2. Born to be Wild.
Silently, he returned to his booth in the corner, sitting with his back to the wall in order to survey his kingdom with Steppenwolf padding his brain (and his male-diminutive 5-7 frame) with adrenaline. A sneer slowly exploded in the space between his left and right ears.
“Yeah, this is how it’s done”.
Daily Prompt: Notorious