Supreme

Harold was unassumable. He wore a light, beige short sleeve button up shirt, with one button too many fastened, causing his loose neck folds to wilt over the sharp creased collar. In the left hand he bore a mace, too large for his minimal frame. In his right, he still grasped the hair of the woman. Her head was crushed, recently the victim of his unwieldy blow. Her left eye still looked up at him, almost making eye contact, yet somehow looking past him toward the cathedral ceiling. Just now, blood was seeping onto Harold’s beige pants, pooling just by the crease running down the leg.

He’d been told that crease would create a sharp look. The shirt, purchased at the same time, still remained free from blood. He gently lay the head back down to the church’s stone floor. Grout lines helped channel the pooling blood away. Instant concern washed over him. Would the grout come clean? He hadn’t thought of that. In fact, he hadn’t thought of anything. He hoped the cleaning crew would not have a hard time with that.

Harold stood, turned to the wall which until recently had been the mace’s perch, and replaced the artifact from the 1st crusade-or was it a relic of the Knights templar of later times? No matter.

His gait was a bit stiff, but not as bad as his sixty year old frame warranted. He stopped at the basin filled with holy water. He crossed himself and left, unaware of the blood now swirling slowly within.

His pants were still bloodied. He walked to the restroom, emptied his pockets, took them off, and washed. The hand soap from the dispenser was almost empty. It took several squirts, each gasping with air, gurgling trying to accommodate. Like the woman on the floor. She did not pass easily. His blow had been weak and glancing. Although enough to knock her over, it wasn’t enough to kill her outright. Indeed, her skull had caved with a rather curious crunch, but he wished he could have managed a more intense blow.

He replaced his pants to their proper position, refilled his pockets. Wallet, three dollar bills, a paperclip, a coupon from the nearby Taco Bell, and a credit card receipt from his purchase of these clothes. He left the church, wet pants leaving a trail of water out and down the large broad masonry steps to the street below.

He walked toward Taco Bell, he was hungry. With his coupon, he had enough for an extra hard shell taco. Today, he would celebrate. He would order a supreme.

The birds made no noise as he walked, deep in thought. The clothes were not working. He would have to return them. He did not feel any more confident. He looked into a passing store window, more focus on his reflection than the lingerie within. His shirt had become untucked yet again. This belt was not adequate either. He undid his belt, secured his shirt tails within his pants, and tried to force the belt tighter…no more holes.

“Hey you pervert! Move along or I’ll call the cops!” emitted from the store’s doorway.

Harold looked up, saw his mother face, and gasped. He looked quickly for a mace. He felt the store window to assure himself it was there. The lady in the doorway, noticed his eyes. They were not right. She backed into the store to dial the police. She locked the door. Harold found the mace, it was lying next to the curb. He picked it up and walked purposefully toward his mother. How could she have left the church? She was always waking up…

He smashed the full length window. The woman screamed. He stepped through, dripping pants, creased shirt, wilty neck, balding pate. She ran toward the back of the store. It would not unlock. Her keys were at the register. There were no weapons here. Mannequins too large, hangers too small, she reached into her pocket and grabbed her measuring tape. She could strangle him, he was a little guy.

Harold saw the measuring tape come out of her pocket. She was delusional, she needed to rest. He swung the mace. She dodged as he swung the pipe at her. Not swift enough, it caught her arm. She punched, contacting his face. Mother always struggled when he tried to make her rest. He swung the mace again. She was hit, square across the jaw, the threaded end of the pipe oddly tingly even as she recoiled from the weight of the blow.

Mother needed to sleep. Finally, contact. The curious crunch. He smiled and knelt next to her. Briefly, he grabbed her hair, pulling the head up, allowing her to view the church around them.

Her eyes stared blindly at the ceiling.

He knew she loved the cathedral ceiling. It was important to let her see it. He gently set her back down. No stains on his clothes. He walked out.

Taco Bell was delicious. As he ate his second taco, he was approached by two officers.

“Please put your hands above your head and lock your fingers together.” The man had a gun drawn on him.

Harold looked down at the sour cream laying gently across his taco. “This is a supreme.” He continued to eat.

“PLEASE PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD AND LOCK YOUR FINGERS TOGETHER!”

Some cheese and sour cream fell out of the taco, onto Harold’s shirt. He would have to find the saleslady. This shirt was not good after all.

The officers grabbed him, easily, cuffing his hands behind him.
Harold wondered if his mom was alright. “Please grab a coupon from them. I’ll need it for my next visit.”
copyright john reed clark 03/28/2010