Tom Simpson - Sink

“I’m telling you Sheriff. I have this crazy feeling that somebody or a group of some bodies is going to try to rob the place. There will be more money drippin’ off the necks of those socialites than this county has ever seen and I think we need to be there when it happens.”

“I’m not going to listen to any more of this hogwash. I’m going out to my county police vehicle and try not to leave any rubber when I blast out of here. Trust me, nothing is going to happen.”

The three tannish-red Advils left a melt in your hand, not in your mouth stain directly in the center of Steve Sidel’s sweaty left palm as he contemplated the irony of the current situation. Fourteen hundred miles he had traveled to be on time for the super grand opening of the super new resort in the middle of this super ex-farmland and he had forgotten his super stupid pre-prepared speech from his super supervisor. Opening his mouth with less than super enthusiasm he popped the Advils in his mouth and swallowed them with the help of a very strong Jack Daniel’s and Coke. The last place he wanted to be, was representing his computer equipment company to a bunch of wealthy people who were here for the status recognition and could care less if everything from the elegant meals to the very tight security were all completely regulated by the latest in electronic technology. His company, Datafuture, was a Fortune 500 firm with more employees than he wished to think about and why they had chosen him to brag about their wonderful advancements in the computer field was beyond him but, oh well, he had decided. POR, push on regardless, and then his secretary had forgotten to pack his speech. By the time he had discovered the folder missing from his attaché case, the home office was closed, and his secretary was probably on a date with her pimply geeky boyfriend and, there was no way she could fax it to him if she was getting groped in the back seat of her boyfriend’s 85 Cutlass. Tomorrow is another day he thought, he would get up at his usual five a.m. and write his own damn speech. He knew more about the workings of the systems anyway since he had designed the entire project. He would just tell the guests the advantages of the new system and how it would vastly improve their comfort and safety as they enjoyed there stay at the beautiful new resort. That’s all they cared about anyway. They could care less about how the company was the wave of the future and how it would influence the entire nation in the years to come. He would just state the facts, mam and deal with the wrath of his boss when he got back. In the meantime he would just nurse his Jack with a silly grin on his face and deal with whatever, whenever.Steve and his younger brother Sam grew up in a modest neighborhood with middle class families surrounding their two story stucco home. Steve loved school, and was a member of the National Honor Society and made the Dean’s List every semester. Sam hated school and hung out with some very low class individuals that were always getting into trouble. Their father, an accountant by trade, tried to interest both his sons into sports but, Steve was the only one interested in any school oriented extra curricular activities. Sam’s extra curricular activities was beating up and robbing the younger kids of their lunch money and trying to steal from parked cars. Sam’s friends were all losers and he fit right in.

Steve excelled in sports and was a multi-letter man every year. Sam excelled in terrorism and was a multi-visitor at the juvenile detention center every year. Steve knew at a young age that he was going to be very successful in his business life. Sam really didn’t give a damn. When Steve graduated from high school, he received several scholarships and decided to attend MIT (The Massachusetts’s Institute of Technology). When Sam dropped out of high school, he attended, not by choice, the county jail. Steve graduated with honors and was swept up by Datafuture, a dynamic new company that was experimenting with computer controlled technology to efficiently run companies in all aspects of their business. Sam was released with parole and was immediately swept up by the authorities when he violated the parole in the first twenty four hours. Two brothers, so different but, still brothers.

The scarab beetle, feeling secure in its homemade tunnel five inches below the surface, heard a scraping sound and began digging furiously downward. A long saliva sticky tongue put a quick halt to its escape plans and the beetle was sucked rapidly toward the surface and into the waiting mouth of the hungry armadillo. The armadillo with its keen sense of smell could find its prey even six inches below the hard packed dirt in the side of the drainage ditch. Seconds after swallowing the hard-shelled insect the armadillo with its equally keen sense of hearing began picking up vibrations from deep within the ground. These sounds, not unlike a large earth mover might make, brought back memories to the armored beast of nests being torn up and having to constantly relocate its home burrow. Over the last three years the armadillo had to move five different times, even though the last six months had been relatively free of disturbances in its lifestyle. Standing on his hind feet, he twisted his head back and forth but couldn’t pinpoint the direction of the noise. Deciding it was unsafe anywhere in this area the armadillo dropped back down on all four legs and scampered hastily back to its burrow more than a hundred yards deep into the thick forest. Three deer, a buck and two does, were nibbling on fresh leaves on young oak saplings when a deep vibration under their feet alerted them to danger. The buck, clearly the leader, raised his head and turned it slowly to the right and then the left. His nostrils flared trying to pick up a strange scent. His sensitive ears twitched rapidly back and forth trying to pick up a noise that he could identify. Puzzled, he jerked his large white bushy tail frantically to signal his two does. The does, seeing the danger sign from the buck, jumped quickly over to their familiar game trail and headed toward the safety of their lair deep in the forest. The buck, pleased that the does responded quickly to his alarm signal, took one last look around and hastily followed his does to their home.

A horned owl, high in the branches of a majestic magnolia tree, was following the movements of a field mouse that was intent on collecting the bright red seeds from the magnolia pods. The owl, planning his attack, was suddenly jolted, by an abrupt shaking of the trunk of the hundred year old tree. Discarding his plans for dinner, the owl flew quickly off the branch he had been perched on and flew deep into the forest. The mouse, unfazed, continued his search for seeds. The tree, quiet now, continued just being a tree.

The weathered white wooden sides of the twelve-foot long boat rocked gently in the gray water as Jeff Finley leaned his four hundred plus pounds over the battered plank that served as the back seat of his fishing boat. Lifting the scarred lid of the ten year old red and white plastic cooler, he didn’t have to glance downwards for his pudgy fingers to grasp the icy metal sides of the Budweiser that lay nestled with its companions, like new born chicks in an overfilled nest. Chips of ice fell off the near frozen twelve ounce can as he expertly flicked the tab top and brought the container to his ample size lips. Draining half the can and belching with a ferocity that echoed across the still lake he set the can on the gritty floor and turned towards his only son, Todd.