Three Word Wednesday
The word prompts over at Three Word Wednesday are agree, execute and providence.
Street Prophet
The guy was middle-aged, balding and wore a cheap tan suit, cowboy cut.
He carried a sign on a piece of slim fencepost, about the size of political yard sign that had sprouted in the suburbs this fall. The sign was bright white and centered in the middle as the word PROVIDENCE, in all caps.
He moved silently, stepped as if riding a riding a horse, over the cracked sidewalk of the lower Village.
“Oh, Christ, check this guy out,” Sanford said, his glass of merlot stopped inches from his lips. “Why is it that we get all the nutbags down here?”
“What’s your problem?” Edison asked. “Dude’s not bothering anyone.”
“Can we all agree that since the crash, there’s more weirdness out there?” Sanford said. “I mean, shit, there’s planning and there’s procrastination. Those who sat on their asses deserve their government cheese products.”
“Dude’s not doing anything but walking down the street with a dumbass sign.”
“Hey, asshole, take your craziness back to Brooklyn, no room for fuckbags here,” Sanford said. “Get a job, dipshit.”
The man’s shoulders hunched. He turned, strode in those halting horseback steps to the table.
“No handouts,” Sanford said, nervously running a hand through his pomade-laden hair. “No craziness here, dude. You want to start something, I’ll finish it.”
The man took a black leather notebook out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open. He rested the sign on his knee, took an elegant fountain pen from his lapel pocket and began to write.
“What, you’re going to give me a ticket? Dude, I’m about a second away from fucking you up.”
The man scribbled quickly, tore the sheet from the others, handed it between two fingers toward Sanford.
Who reached out and snatched it.
“The fuck?”
Written in an elaborate hand was one word.
“Execute.”
Street Prophet
The guy was middle-aged, balding and wore a cheap tan suit, cowboy cut.
He carried a sign on a piece of slim fencepost, about the size of political yard sign that had sprouted in the suburbs this fall. The sign was bright white and centered in the middle as the word PROVIDENCE, in all caps.
He moved silently, stepped as if riding a riding a horse, over the cracked sidewalk of the lower Village.
“Oh, Christ, check this guy out,” Sanford said, his glass of merlot stopped inches from his lips. “Why is it that we get all the nutbags down here?”
“What’s your problem?” Edison asked. “Dude’s not bothering anyone.”
“Can we all agree that since the crash, there’s more weirdness out there?” Sanford said. “I mean, shit, there’s planning and there’s procrastination. Those who sat on their asses deserve their government cheese products.”
“Dude’s not doing anything but walking down the street with a dumbass sign.”
“Hey, asshole, take your craziness back to Brooklyn, no room for fuckbags here,” Sanford said. “Get a job, dipshit.”
The man’s shoulders hunched. He turned, strode in those halting horseback steps to the table.
“No handouts,” Sanford said, nervously running a hand through his pomade-laden hair. “No craziness here, dude. You want to start something, I’ll finish it.”
The man took a black leather notebook out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open. He rested the sign on his knee, took an elegant fountain pen from his lapel pocket and began to write.
“What, you’re going to give me a ticket? Dude, I’m about a second away from fucking you up.”
The man scribbled quickly, tore the sheet from the others, handed it between two fingers toward Sanford.
Who reached out and snatched it.
“The fuck?”
Written in an elaborate hand was one word.
“Execute.”
Comments
Thanks for taking over 3WW! I've done my first one today.
-- Snarky Pants
P.S. But I still like my 3 WWW selection better: Empty, closet, hollow.
Thanks for the words.
Depth of hell pours forth tirade of words