“‘Fuck Abe Lincoln’ was a new way to Own the Libz, sure, but in this political climate, who knows what might work.”
He was rubbing the permanent red marks on the bridge of his nose so he didn’t notice the mushroom shaped old man approach with his bowling ball carrier of a bag. His glasses returned to their holster, Mike looked out of the corner of his eye at the man as he bent at the knees, low enough that his overcoat dragged on the artificial turf that had been stapled to the roof’s floor, to gingerly set down the sack, the way a rookie cop would put down a duffle bag of 100s for a kidnapper. A flick of the middle finger released the tarnished-gold latch, setting off a rustling inside. Pointy ears, like Batman with fur, came first, then a curious looking tongue that curled like a slide at a waterpark and bounced to the cadence of excited breathing, before the rest of the infant-sized dog popped out.
Mike wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t sure what he expected but it wasn’t that and when a second dog, identical in every way except white where the first had been black, popped out next like the 9th clown in a clown car, Mike placed his pencil in between the pages of his notebook and turned his full attention to the proceedings.
