The Ice Cream Man
“We had a report of screams coming from your truck,” the policeman said.
“It’s just how folks get around ice cream,” the ice cream man said. “You know–I scream, you scream, we all scream for–”
“Yeah, yeah,” the policeman said. “I know.”
The ice cream man offered the policeman two scoops of rocky road in a waffle cone, which he gladly accepted before moseying back to his cruiser.
The ice cream man stepped back into his truck and locked the door behind him.
He picked up a set of needle-nosed pliers, clanking the tips together in his hand. The ends, bright red with fresh blood, shone in the dim light. He looked out through a crack in the side window, which he’d closed three hours before.
The cruiser eased onto the road, and vanished into the distance.
“All this screaming for ice cream,” the man said, as he turned back to his duct-taped captives, “is a bit like a boy crying wolf, don’t you think?”
He picked up his blowtorch, and looked between it and the pliers, mentally weighing his options for his next amusement.
They had screamed for ice cream. They saw now the error of their ways, but saw it too late.
“What a memory,” Hannah said. “Look at this.”
Wanted: Custom body armor, maternity fit.
“Yeah,” Phillip said, maintaining his smile while she was in the room. “Happy one year anniversary. Could you take the shackle off?”
“Perhaps when you’re done with the story,” Hannah said. “You have mouths to feed.”