Hello people; author here. Due to my new job, updates may not come as freqent as you'd expect. I'm sorry, but try to live on anyway!
-God-hand Number 7-
---
30
The afternoon crawled by on its hands and knees, the bright sun above hardly halfway past noon. Everything ticked by at a slug's pace since Kim had been caught between a rock and a hard place, a very lethargic slug that had practically given up, inching along simply for its own amusement… if their instincts allowed such feeling.
Still, there was nothing to do till the night had long crawled after the daylight, till everybody crashed that Bonnet guy's practice with his klezmer thingy. Yune was in the other room, isolating himself inside Robin's shower. Tara could have used one herself after her sparring session; how she'd love to have her man all to herself behind the curtain. But of course she couldn't, she wouldn't till her wedding day came to pass.
Then again, life could be so unpredictable at times….
-Nah…! - She shook it off. -Don't even think like that! -
Ronald lay on the couch, his bald pet curled into itself upon its master's chest, rising and falling in sync with his breathing. Both basked in the glow of the TV, blaring some Semitic gibberish only that the messy blond could make sense of.
"So what does a Jew or a Jewess do during his or her downtime around these parts, Ronald?" she asked.
Ron said nothing, gestured nothing, not even his rat could be bothered to squeak.
"Apparently s/he watches that big ass TV." She shrugged. "I should have known."
Her boots--rather--her man's boots carried her over to the couch. Looking down upon the boy, he had his lids closed, eyes jittering behind the thin flesh, and his breathing calm and gentle.
"REM." She remembered reading sometime ago. "I wonder what he's dreaming…."
"Nothing you'd be interested in, T." Yune called through the bathroom door, probably ajar just a little bit. "Probably eating the world's biggest nacho, winning Fortress with the highest score, or maybe something a little more risqué."
"And how'd you know that, Yune?" she asked.
"Don't be silly, Tara." The bathroom door squealed as her man pushed it open. "He's a boy, after all, and Ron obviously cares for Kimberly a lot. Would it really be that surprising if good old Ron took things to another -intimate- level--in his own brain, that is."
"Aisle 16…!" Ronald said sleepily, pumping his arms out swiftly, strongly before they slapped onto his belly. "Smarty Mart March Madness Sale…! Everything… must--GO…!"
"I take that back…!" Her man noted.
"No," she'd wink if Yune were sure to see it, "not really. That's the cool part of dreams, I guess. They can go wherever you want them to."
"Exactly." Yune agreed. "And no one would ever know, if you kept it to yourself like a mafia secret. But there's a place I'd like you to go for me, Tara."
"Oh really?" she smirked. "Where would that be, dearest?"
"In the bedroom," he said, "would you be so kind as to hand me the clothes I have on the bed?"
"Oh." She let her lips drop back down into neutral. "Well, sure. If you want."
"I do want, in fact." He said. "And no, you can't have a peak at me!"
"Please…?" she said sweetly. "I'll keep my hands to myself…!"
"Nope." Yune said simply. "You naughty girl!"
"Okay…!" she rolled her eyes. "Have it your way. But you can't blame this girl for trying, right?"
"Nope." He said simply again. "Tara, you know I love you deeply, right?"
"Of course I do." She smiled warmly. "I love you too."
"T," he said, "I'd love nothing more than a hands-on experience, but if I get started, I know I won't be able to stop myself. I'd love to have kids with you, T, but I don't want to get you pregnant right now. It's just not the time."
"I'll say." She nodded. "Not with these violent freaks running around. I want our baby safe and secure."
"Now we're getting ahead of ourselves." Yune said. "Not even married yet, and already we're talking about kids."
"Well, I heard it's good to discuss these things beforehand." She shrugged. "To know what each partner wants out of a relationship before they walk the aisle."
"Hmm…." She placed a hand to her belly. Her stomach grumbled against her fingers. Was it that time of day already? Man, did time have a way of slipping by. "Oh--! I'd better eat something. Could have had some cheese if Shaggy over there didn't eat it all! Damn hog!"
"Uh--Tara?"
"Yes, Yune?"
"My clothes please?" he said. "We'll get something a little later, okay?"
"Oh!" She blinked. "Right."
Her legs carried her around the corner, past the bathroom, through the door that led into the bedroom. Yune had his clothes folded neatly in on the bed spread, a tacky gray T-shirt resting atop a pair of faded blue shorts. Thank God Yune had her around; the poor Asian was a fashion disaster waiting to happen. Either way, her forearms made like a forklift, wedging underneath the clothes and lifting them off the bedspread.
"Are you serious, Yune?" she pushed the neat pile onto her left forearm, balancing it evenly. Her right arm couldn't help but rub itself against her pants, feeling somehow contaminated by her man's dreaded old people sense of dress. "Don't wear this! You'll look like an old man! And if I even see you tuck it in, I swear I'm going to scream!"
"Not this again!" Yune sighed. "What's wrong with the way I dress, pray tell?"
"Not only did you just happen to find the worst shirt on the rack, dearest!" she rolled her eyes. "You also chose a pair of ratty old shorts, faded from one too many times in the wash!"
"I'm hurt!" He laughed. "I'm crushed! I thought you loved me, Tara! Whatever happened?"
"Don't give me that!" Her heel dug itself into the carpet as she turned around. "I may love you, Yune, but that doesn't mean I have to love your taste! That does it! When we get back home, I'm taking you shopping, first thing!"
"Blah…!" She could have sworn she heard that rat squeak unsolicited.
"Blah yourself, Rufus!" she frowned.
"This is one lovers' quarrel you can't interfere with, little guy." Yune said jovially. "Sorry."
Her boots pointed at the bathroom before her body had a chance to catch up with them, spine twisting back into proper alignment before the door. She moved the clothes up into her palm with help from her free hand, lifting them up to shoulder height like a bellhop with a fresh set of towels. She gave the door a little bang with her free knuckle.
"Tacky clothes for Mr. Bin-Mok!" she grinned.
"Cute…" her man eased the door a little more away from the frame, "really cute."
Yune simply moved into her view. Man was he hot, and the thought of the steam escaping the room didn't even cross her mind. That medium build hosted well-carved pecks just above his abdominal muscles, peaking barely through his smooth, tan skin. His coup-de-grace was hidden from her, swathed in a thick, white bath towel that wrapped tightly around his waist.
"Thank you, dear." His smirk came fleetingly while he forced his arm past the door. The clothes left her arm in a twinkling of an eye. A small, warm tingle simmered in her belly as the tips of his fingers brushed over her own.
"You're welcome, of course." She nodded slowly, drinking in all the handsome beauty that was her man. So hot, so firm, so… utterly yummy, he was! "I'd like to use the shower too, when you're done."
"Sure T." Yune nodded. "I got to get dressed first, brush my hair and whatnot."
"Yeah…." She let his abs slide up in her view till they peaked just below her eyebrows. Then she simply… kept watch. "You do that. Don't let me stop you."
"Right." Her heart skipped a beat when his hands went for that towel, that -tight- towel that hugged his butt so nicely. He thumbed out the little piece that he had tucked in, and his hands clenched in anticipation.
This was it!
"Bad girl!" She tore her gaze from his towel. Yune frowned at her while he took his hand away from the towel, wrapping his fingers tightly against the spray bottle nearby. "Bad…!"
Her man shoved the spray right at her. She yelped as a cold mist wisped against her face, nearly stumbling backwards over her boots.
"What the--!?" she blinked.
"That's what you get for being a naughty cat, Tara." Yune smirked as he gave her another generous puff of mist. "Now get out of here, or you won't get your ball of yarn. So there!"
His pink tongue pointed at her playfully before the door clicked back into the frame, rather loudly, the exclamation point of his underlying theme.
"Have it your way, Yune." She sighed. "You're mine already!"
"Damn right." Her man called through the door. "Now go watch some TV or something. I shouldn't be too long."
"Right-o." she shrugged.
Her fingers ran slickly over her face while she wiped the water away, pushing it up into her hair while she went back for the couch. The blond boy still was on the couch, a hand on the floor by the wrist, and a shoe on the floor by the arch. Rufus sat like a little puppy on its master, riding the rhythmic waves while its buddy's chest rose and fell. Those dark, beady eyes glued to the TV.
Just like the Dan Panorama, the set spat out Semitic gibberish that only Ron could make some sense of. It was all in Hebrew… or Yiddish--or whatever language the natives spoke around these parts. All that she could really tell was that it was some kind of news program, two people sitting stiffly behind a rather large desk. That much, she could put together easily.
She shuffled herself between the couch and the coffee table, weaving between Ron's fallen limbs and the tempered pane. She turned around at the waist. The bald pet blinked, narrowing those beady little eyes, glaring at her when her shadow fell over it.
"Hey!" Rufus squealed through its nose.
"Sorry buddy." Easily she piled the rat into her sweeping palm. "But I could use a sit. You could sit on me, if you'd like."
"Hmm… fine…!" that little rat sighed. It was so cute in its… bald--creepiness. Hell--with those buckteeth fused on his lips, it was hard to take anything the rat squealed seriously.
"Thanks."
She let her body twist back into proper alignment. Soon, one thing led after another, she let her knees give out, buckling and gravity seized her by the hindquarters. But thankfully, something was below that her that broke her fall, something squishy and scrawny. Her rump could feel something like bone shifting inside her cushion. It even let out some air in some sort of grunt.
"-OH! -" Her pillow coughed. "-Ah…! -"
"Whoops!" she smirked. "Was that you, Ron? I didn't see your body melting over the whole damn couch!"
"What…?" Her cushion blinked, blond fringes crammed between it and the armrest.
"Come on, Ron." She coaxed. "Wake up time."
"-Hmm…. -" the blond growled.
"Come on," she sighed, "get up! It's nearly four in the afternoon!"
"Fine…!" the boy frowned. "Now get off me!"
"Aw…!" she smirked. "I don't think I could, even if I wanted to. You're so comfortable!"
"Oh--come on, Tara!" He whined. His limbs flailed over her back and her legs like a pair of dying fish, attempting feebly to scoop her, to pry her from her spot. "I can barely breathe! I'm too young to die! Where the heck's Yune? Don't you already have -his- brain to mess with?"
"He's busy right now." She smirked.
"Man--!" His abs tried uselessly to sit him up. "What'd I ever do to you?"
"Nothing, really." she shrugged. "You're just fun to tease. Besides which, you hogged all of that goat cheese. What if Yune or I wanted a piece, huh?"
"But you never said anything!" he protested.
"IT'S THE FACT OF THE MATTER, FOOL!" She exclaimed, giving his innards a jolt with a little bounce. "I'm hungry and there's nothing here--because of you two!"
"Oh--!" Ron groaned. "But… you can't be hungry, Tara."
"Oh really?" she smirked playfully. "And why's that Mr. Stoppable?"
"You simply can't be hungry around these parts." He wiggled. "Because how can you be Hungary when you're close to Turkey and Greece?"
"Huh?" she blinked.
"Like I said, Tara." Ronald said. "You can't be -Hungary- when you're near -Turkey- and -Greece-!"
"Cute Ron." She nodded bitterly. "But that doesn't put food in my belly, does it Mister?"
"I guess not."
"No, it doesn't!" she bounced again. Ron let out another grunt.
"Come on--man!" Ron whined--
-Bang--Bang--BANG!! -
A steady thumping came from the wall behind, the drywall practically jumping off the frame with every beat.
"KNOCK IT OFF, YOU TWO!" Her man shouted.
"Okay…!" she let her eyes roll habitually.
"WHAT?"
"I said OKAY!" she exclaimed, tapping the wall with her elbow. "Man, he can be such an old geezer sometimes."
"Better do what he says, Tara." Ron said jokily. "If he has to come back here, he'll turn the car around and we'll be going back home. No circus for us!"
"Blah…!" she gagged aloud. "I hate circuses. The smell, the clowns, and the carnies have some really sticky fingers."
"Uh-huh, uh-huh!" the little rodent agreed. "Sticky icky!"
"Now that we got that settled, T." Ron said. "There's just one more thing we have to tend to."
"What's that?" she asked.
"You're still SITTING ON ME!" he yelled. "Get off!"
"Oh!" she blinked. "Right, of course. Sorry about that."
Ronald gagged as she stood up, driving her butt into his gut as her legs yanked it off. The blond scrambled for one side of the couch, swooping his legs off the other cushion just for her. Her rump sank gladly into the bare cushion, letting her arm melt atop the rest beside.
She looked at the TV. Still it sputtered out that language she couldn't begin to understand, but something wasn't quite right. The cardboard cutouts behind the oversized desk sat rather tensely, unnerved by something obviously. The boy next to her had a definite kink in his brow when she shot him a glance.
"You understand them, Ron?" she asked.
"Being the only Jew in the room," his closest eye rolled for her, gazing at her dubiously, "hello… yeah!"
"What are they saying then, Mr. Smarty Pants!" she pressed.
"Well, hold on now…!" Ron leaned his back away from the couch, elbows sinking into the meat of his legs just above his knees while he laid his chin below his knuckles. "Okay…."
"And…?" she said.
"Breaking news…" the blond said slowly, "out of Jerusalem…. We have gotten… word--that a convoy of VSA… arrived… by the Wailing Wall. Details are unclear… at the moment. David--Schlitz… at the scene."
"What?"
"You heard me right, T." Ron said. "Now hold on a second."
"Okay."
She nodded while the TV cut immediately to that famous wall, green patches of that grassy stuff peeking through the cracks. The equally famous dome of… shinny stuff sparkled brightly. It was like the sun, sitting in a patch of blue, beautiful in a way. Surely Ronald held his own opinions about it; probably better if she didn't inquire.
Behind the man, the ground before that wall teamed with men in olive. The red characters emblazoned on the hummer parked nearby told her all it need to. Yet far before that famous site stood a man who had seen better days, disheveled, hair in a messy fray, eyes glistening the trouble that festered within him. If she had known better, she'd say that the guy wasn't happy to be there at all.
"It has been quite…" Ron worked his magic with the TV, "a day… here. I am pleased… that I'm--alive… today. But with… heavy heart… I… sorry to say that… after today… the world will not be… happier anymore."
"Huh?" she blinked. "What're you talking about?"
"Cut me a break, Tara." Ron rolled his dark eyes. "I'm doing my best here. You know the last time I spoke this fluently?"
"Uh… Ron?"
"I was five, okay?" Ron said. "Considering I haven't spoke it well over ten years, I'd say I'm doing pretty good!"
"You are." She pointed. "But the guy's still talking."
"Right." He nodded. "He's basically talking about how he got abducted by these brutes and why--!"
"Why what?"
"Hold on…!" Ron glared at the TV crossly. "People of Israel… I present--you… our infamous major…!"
She gasped quietly, feeling her heart thump against her sternum. Rufus growled angrily at the set. Ron blinked a few seconds, letting what little of it soak thoroughly into his brain.
"Major…?" Ron pondered it aloud. For some reason, a stopwatch seemed appropriate. "The Major--of course!"
"In record time too…." She smirked weakly.
"Huh?"
"Never mind." She shook her head.
"What's going on out there?" her man asked loudly through the wall.
"Give us a minute." She called back. "Go on, Ron. Do your thing."
The weary man bowed his head shamefully, wiping a shaky hand across his brow as he walked away. The loose earth pictured brightly shifted, so the speakers hinted, shifted steadily… and everybody's favorite metal-head strolled onto the camera. His twisted face, those weathered, hazel windows of his dark, dank soul were hidden by a thick gas mask. The bulky, awkward combat load was swathed inside that dark poncho.
"Well what do you know." She frowned bitterly.
"People of Israel…" Ron began more confidently, "today I bring you… a message… of--peace (sure buddy, and I bet you have some marshes in the Golan to sell too)."
"I don't need a commentary!" She said.
"Anyway," Ron continued, "and yet… by continued efforts to wipe me out… we can have no peace. As soldier… I'm committed--to protect you by any means. Yet… you--reject me… try to annihilate even. I grow weary… of certain actions against…. I stand before you now… unafraid of you. 'Fear not the one who can destroy your body, fear the one who can destroy your soul and your body!'"
"New Testament?" she blinked. "What's this guy on?"
"Why should I be afraid… of countrymen?" the blond continued. "I grow weary… of this moniker--you people bestowed…. I fear you… never again… Israel… so-called 'Palestine'--and rest of--inbred scum! Behold… you faggots!"
The side of the poncho whipped up as if the wind had taken hold of it. The wretched punk lifted up his only arm, fingers darting for that mask like volley of spears. They twisted by the wrist, seizing the mask by the filter. He angled his strange head--and the mask slipped off smoothly, even over the large shards. The speakers let out a clunk just after the punk let the mask fall out of camera. At last, the world could gaze upon the brat in all his -glorious- fury.
"Behold, scum, your infamous Major." Ron translated flatly. "Uzziel Lichtenfeld Drazen, at your service!"
---
It was Sunday. The last sip of her morning coffee tingled still warmly in her belly; her breakfast had already been shoveled down. Her beeper and cellular switched off, charging beside each other on the end table by her side of the bed. There was nothing to do besides spend the daylight hours with her family. Sure her little girl may have been on another hot adventure, bubbling at the brim with danger and excitement, but she was certain Kimmie could handle herself. She always did… though her last nearly cost the entire family dearly.
A pun, how delightfully grim--not! That gang of treacherous brutes had been put in their place; yet it pained her to know their demise came about by her own flesh and blood. It was like a sliver in her brain, poking at her, buried so deep that not even she--Dr. Jean Possible MD, renowned the world over--could pluck it out. Surely that Hershel lady will help Kimberly see her project through to the end, and hopefully a drop of blood won't splat on the ground, even ooze out its owner.
"This just in from Jerusalem!" the big screen exclaimed, and to think that Jean was about to have a good day too.
Her innards tingled with a sudden dread, her brain reminding her of what it's like to fire a synapse under stress. Maybe it was nothing; maybe it was something, but she needed to know for certain. Collectedly, she gazed upon the set.
"Recently, for several months now," the stiff man reported, "the Israelis have been dealing stressfully with infighting amongst themselves over Palestinian militant attacks and settlements amongst other issues. Now, with talks of a complete turnover of power of the Temple Mount, tensions between the two sides are high, even cases of where fighting has broken out into the streets. Currently one side, calling themselves VSA--or the 'Victims' Separatist Army', claiming to be representing those who've been hurt in the violence, have clustered around the Wailing Wall for what appears to be a press conference. Our correspondent, Troy Castor, has more…."
"Here we go…!" she sighed. "Can't wait to hear this…!"
"Did you say something, Hon?" Gary called from the kitchen.
"Nothing, Dear." She called back.
"Right."
"Yes Phil," nodded the new guy that flashed on the TV, "It's been a hell-of-a weekend here in Israel. Not even a day after the horrific massacre had been blown against the people in the West Bank, the rebel fighters called the 'VSA' have swarmed around the Wailing Wall just around 10 o'clock Eastern Standard Time. The self-appointed leader of the VSA, previously known simply by 'The Major', has for the first time, since his moniker has become household in Israel, revealed himself to the public."
The screen cut to a picture, a photograph taken of a young lad aged no more than 20. A darker shade didn't seem to vanish off his skin, given the brightness, while that same shadow grew rather lengthily, bushy at his chin. His hair was a borderline pompadour, puffy and full of body, glinting youthfully in the light. The lad reminded her of what Kimberly had told her about.
"It has been confirmed that the Major is indeed this man," the guy continued, "Uzziel Lichtenfeld Drazen, formerly of the private army eerily known as 'The Family'. Uzi was thought to be dead for sometime now until today. However, it is not known how he survived, yet today… that doesn't seem to be the issue."
"Drazen?" Gary said. "Isn't that the bunch that Kimmie-Cub put out to pasture some time ago?"
"Apparently not." She shrugged.
"And what seems to be this issue to day, Troy?" the previous anchor inquired.
"From Mr. Drazen's overwritten babbling," Troy replied, "in between abrupt tirades against the Palestinians and Arab neighbors, this apparently is a demonstration. To what purpose the man had in mind is beyond me--!"
Shouting erupted from behind the man, where those brutes in olive crowded and huddled closely together. The microphone dropped below camera, and Mr. Castor graced his audience with the back of his cropped head. --Something popped from the speakers; it was like a firework, like a nice M80. The anchor's shoulders bounced at it.
"Shots fired!" Troy exclaimed as he--and the camera--dropped to a hunch. Jean pushed herself closer to the edge of the couch.
"What's going on?" the former anchor asked flatly.
"BRING OUT THE PRISONER!" someone shouted behind him.
"Well--" Troy replied, "you heard the Major."
The current anchor graced her again with the back of his head, and then whipped it back around properly. He then shuffled out of the camera's viewpoint like a duck.
"Are you seeing this?" the man asked.
The back of the furthest vehicle on screen was overwhelmed with men in olive, about 10 of them at least, maybe even more. Out from the back of that same vehicle came a woman, slender and shapely. They had some humanity; her chest thankfully was swathed in a black bra of some brand. Her legs bagged in a pair of olive pants. With a squint, she could just make out a bit of red pasted on the woman's belly. Didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out why.
"Could it…?" her heart tingled fiercely, jumping against her sternum.
The final piece fell into place at a glimpse of that hair, auburn, fiery red in the Israeli sun, puffy and full of body that looked to reach the small of the woman's… the girl's back.
-My God…! -
"GARY!!" She yelled. "Get in here, NOW!!"
"Whoa, little lady!" Her hubby stumbled in through the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own loafers. "Where's the fire!"
"Shut up!" she growled. "Watch the screen!"
Gary made like a good boy, nodding just after he gave her a quizzical blink. He fixed his eyes onto the huge picture; the olive hooligans dragged her--literally dragged her child over to the wall as soon as her shoes were free of the vehicle. The olive mass smeared in front of the wall dissolved, shifting toward the vehicles. Several men still stood in front of the Wailing Wall, their long guns trained aimlessly at the wild blue yonder.
"As for the exhibition, let it be known around the world that no one can stop me!" said the short man with the… uh… metal growing out his very cropped head, standing idly by the adjacent wall. As God was her witness, that man had metal shards growing out his head, glinting sharply in the sunlight. "This man is tired of being executed! As for today's guest of honor, I cannot say the same for her. By the spilling of her blood, people of this land, rejoice! The new order has arrived!"
"That's odd." The previous anchor said indifferently. What nerve! "He was speaking Hebrew a little while ago. Wasn't he? Maybe I wasn't paying attention."
"No, you're correct." The latter anchor replied. God, what's wrong with these people? "It's been known that he speaks several languages fluently: Czech, German, Hebrew, even Serbian!"
"So that explains the violent streak." The previous one said.
"Probably." Troy shrugged.
Two other olive men had taken custody of her daughter, each taking to an arm. They dragged her through the line of men--the firing line, she should say. The men reared back their arms, and with a mighty heave, they threw her daughter against the holy site. She cringed when Kimmie was flattened against the wall, recoiling off it and onto the ground, into an already broken heap.
"My baby…!" she mouthed.
"We have to do something!" Gary exclaimed. "Contact the Israeli embassy, their Prime Minister, or someone for God's sake! They can't do this; THEY CAN'T DO THIS!"
"Gary, calm down!" she coaxed tenderly.
"CALM DOWN!?"
"Right." She nodded. "These jokers can't succeed. They still haven't found Ron yet. I'm sure he's seen the news, and he's on his way right now! I bet you he is!"
"I don't know, Jean." Her husband dropped his gaze at the floor. A shaky hand of his combed through his hair; she even brushed her fingers through on the other half, just above his temporal lobe. "I just don't know anymore! Why'd we even let her go on these exploits to begin with, huh? I knew someday this was going to happen, Jean, and today happens to be that day! Oh God…!"
Gary looked like he was about to cry. It was he at his most genuine. She'd love it today, under any other circumstances.
"We're such lousy parents!" He sniffed.
"No, we're not." She said. "Kim's not a little girl anymore. She's at that age where she can take care of herself. If she fails, we can't pick up the pieces for her anymore. There are things in the life she's got to find out for herself. She knew that going in, and she didn't care, just as long as she can help those who need it."
"Right." He nodded.
"Come now." She took him by the arm. "Let's just watch. I'm sure she'll get out okay, one way or another. She's been in worse, you know."
"Right." He nodded again.
"And I'm sure Ron's--!"
-KA-BLAM!! -
A loud explosion practically blew out the surround sound. She and her hubby didn't need to be hinted twice.
The grim quietude had erupted into chaos. A thick, chubby plume of white smoke blossomed a few feet off the ground, lifting higher into the sky. Kim was missing in action, nowhere to be seen. The cold soldiers that stood maliciously before her flesh-and-blood have toppled, some motionless while other moved and shifted on their backs weakly like newborn turtles. The Drazen punk looked like he ate one of those shards stuck on his head, storming irritably across the screen--
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it, just a faint, fleeting wisp of red, puffy and full of body, before it disappeared beneath the top of the closest vehicle. Her little girl had made it out! Kimberly was still alive, someway, somehow!
-Thank you, JESUS! - She smiled brightly. -She's alive, but please… just keep her that way! -
"Way to go, Kimmie-Cub!" Gary praised, as though he were stuck on the sidelines. "Now get out of there!"
"I have a sneaky suspicion she knows that, Gary." She sighed. "Shall I break out the snacks, or your foamy-finger then?"
"I'm good, thanks." He replied. "Aren't you going to watch?"
"No…." She replied. "I can't watch. Besides, my latest essay for the medical journal isn't going to write itself."
"All right." He nodded. "I'll keep you posted--! What THE!?"
"That was Troy Castor in Jerusalem." The previous anchor man said coolly. She blinked. Sitting behind that imposing desk sat the first anchor, dressed proudly in his brown suit, a rather pompous red power tie wrapped firmly around his neck. A bright photograph of the capital city's skyline served as a backdrop. "We will keep you updated. But now, Chef Bob is in the studio, preparing to show us how to make a fine TV dinner! Now doesn't that sound scrumptious? That's coming up on the show that the Tri-City area turns for news, her on Channel--"
She fingered the power button on the remote. There was so much indifference they could handle in a day.
"WHAT!?" Gary yelled. "My daughter's in danger, and ALL THEY CAN THINK ABOUT IS FOOD!? WHAT KIND OF MEDIA CIRCUS ARE THEY RUNNING!?"
"Then again," she rationalized collectedly, "maybe it's better you don't watch. Come on, Gary. I'll make ourselves some BLTs."
Gary managed to stop his hyperventilation, letting out all his frustration in a sigh that filled their spacious living room.
"Yes, dear." He nodded. "I could use a cold one right about now."
"Worry about that later." Her pumps clacked on the tile as she stepped into the kitchen. "Now get in here."