|It Was Elvis! (standard:drama, 2267 words)|
|Author: Gerald Sheagren||Added: Dec 22 2003||Views/Reads: 1825/1035||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|When a girl is sexually attacked by a man she insists looks just like Elvis, it leads her brother on a quest for revenge, which, in the end, will have terrible consequences.|
It Was Elvis! By Gerald E. Sheagren Richie Bartucci kicked open the screen door with such force that it bounced off the side of the house , nearly catching him in the face on the back-swing. Cursing and muttering, he started to pace, lighting up a cigarette and blowing a thick cloud of smoke through his nostrils. He was mad, violent mad; a vein swelling in his temple, squirming like a big, fat worm just below the skin. Growling, he kicked a potted plant, sending it sailing across the front yard. “Nadine, get out here, right now!” “I don't want to,” whined a voice from inside the house. “If you don't get your butt out here, I'll come in and drag you out!” Moments later, his sister appeared in the doorway; hair in disarray; blouse torn; a purple mouse shrinking her right eye into a watery slit. She stood there, sobbing, her good eye unwilling to meet his glare. “Let's go, Nadine! We're gonna find the guy that did this to you!” “Please, let the police handle this.” Richie snorted a laugh. “The Keystone Kops in this town; you have got to be kidding me! They couldn't find a week-old corpse in a closet!” Maria Bartucci swept forward, wrapping a pudgy arm around her daughter's shoulder. “There won't be any of this big brother machismo, Richard. The time of vendettas is over; a relic of the past.” She combed Nadine's hair with her fingers and gently touched the mouse, causing the girl to flinch. “I'm going to call the police, right now, and you can stop your foolish talk.” “Pop would have done the same thing and you know it.” “Oh, there's no doubt about that,” hissed Maria, a pained look spreading across her ample face. “But your father is gone, Richard. He's ----- He's nothing but a memory.” “An ever-present memory,” retorted Richie, regarding his mother's black dress, her black stockings, the black shoes. “So, now, it's up to me.” Flinging open the screen door, he grabbed hold of Nadine's arm and hauled her onto the porch. “Let's go, sis! We're gonna cruise until we find this creep. And when we do, God help him, I'm gonna -----!” “Please, Richie, I've been through enough.” Ignoring the pleas of his mother, Richie dragged Nadine to his candy apple-red Camaro, opened the door and shoved her onto the passenger's seat. Hurrying around, he hopped behind the wheel and sat there for a few moments, fuming, before firing up the engine. The vein in his temple was pulsating, looking as though it was about to explode. “Okay, tell me again what this guy looked like.” “I told you.” “Well, tell me again!” “Elvis, for crying-out-loud! He looked exactly like Elvis!” “C'mon, sis. How much could someone look like Elvis?” “He could be his twin. Black hair, slick with some kind of goop, and combed – you know – just like Elvis use to comb his hair. Pouting lips. Even a white jumpsuit, with ----- with red rhinestones.” “Ah, c'mon! What kind of idiot goes around with a white jumpsuit with red rhinestones?” Click here to read the rest of this story (258 more lines)
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