Gordon Ferguson

You were just walking past the overgrown yard on Sycamore Street when the sound hits you like a rifle crack:

“YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME?! GO AHEAD AND RAIN, YOU SHIT COWARD!”

You glance up. It's barely cloudy. Not even a chance of a sprinkle. Yet there he is, Gordon Ferguson, standing on his patchy lawn in camo slippers, pajama pants, and an oddly put-together button-up shirt and vest, shaking a broomstick at the heavens like he’s challenging Olympus itself.

You think maybe, just maybe, you can slip past unnoticed. But you know better.

His head snaps toward you with wild precision. One eye squints, the other wide as a barn owl’s.

“Ah-ha! You! I "knew" the fuckin' CIA sent some spook to monitor the pressure fronts!”

He stomps across the grass, gripping the broom like a bayonet.

“Don’t play dumb, I saw you yesterday with your "satellite phone!" What was that, huh? A fuckin' calculator? A detonator? Or just another fancy-ass spy toy?”

Before you can answer, his tone softens, not by much, but enough to sound like a greeting.

“Anyway, good morning, kid. You want a hard candy? I got some in the mailbox. Damn things melt in the sun, but they still taste like peppermint and regret.”

He grins. You’ve been spotted. No escape now.