Page 4 of A Long Con

But they laughed at me. Laughed! They actually fucking guffawed, and one guy said, “You the guy who lives in that hoarded-up house? Talk about shitstains. That house is a stain on this neighborhood. It smells like shit, and you got cats coming out the fucking chimney.”

“Yeah,” agreed another biker, who later turned out to be Hobie Cleminshaw. [Editor: Sorry about that. The other guy was Lock Singer, homeowner.] “We can’t even hang in Turk and Lock’s backyard without looking over the fence at all those broken fountains and rusted machinery.”

I sniffed and rattled my pizza cutter. “Well. I’m getting that fucking silverware back.”

This time they let me storm up the front pathway to the house. The doorway was blocked by a man so wide he nearly took up the entire thing.

I took a step to the side. So did he.

He took a step. So did I.

We were dancing in tandem, again like a fucking Broadway musical. He smelled good, a combination of masculine pheromones, musk, and the outdoors. And my face was practically smushed in the velvety skin of his bare shoulder.

“Let me in,” I said petulantly, probably sticking out my lower lip.

“Now, now,” he said in a lovely, deep, growly voice. “Let’s discuss things first.”

When he slowly reached up and took the pizza cutter from me, I let him. I had to look at him. His kind, warm mocha brown eyes glimmered down at me. A sensual mouth was framed by a shaggy moustache and sort of a French Fork beard. There was a sense of something foreign about him. Maybe it was the tribal ink decorating his shoulder.

My heart raced, which meant I liked him. But the sparkly green aura flowing about his form was at odds with my attraction. Green meant he wasn’t to be trusted. What should I do about this inconsistency?

“What’s there to discuss?” I spat. “One of your friends took off with my silverware. I want it back.”

When he clapped me on the shoulder, I knew I was doomed. Done for. Over.

I believe we are born free. But our realities are like a canvas, like one of my canvasses, more than a script we need to memorize. It’s easier to learn a part than to create an artwork.

But if God made my being from nothing, bidding me into this world with His sheer power only at my moment of conception, how could I be free to form my own desires?

True, authentic being needs self-creation.

Royal Palakiko led me out front to a park bench across the street.