Victims of Shakespeare

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Copyright © 2008 Edward M. Baldwin

Chapter 1

(Draft)

 

THE BLACK GIRL IS AN EASY TARGET, but Billy can’t use a black girl right now. Her name is Macretia Pollard, and he eyes her from his slouched position, sitting in a not-so-comfortable driver’s seat, thinking how odd it is to see a black girl leaving a movie theater without a date, or at least another female companion. After all, black girls aren’t known for displaying the level of self-confidence required for going to the movies alone. He watches Macretia wander away from the rest of the post-cinema stampede without so much as a chaperone, and can’t help watching this idiot as she zig-zags between cars to her mother’s Buick that’s ingeniously parked too far in the back of the shadow-stricken parking lot. Too far for anyone to be walking alone—male or female.

A part of him wants to teach Macretia a lesson in self-preservation, but to what end? There are thousands of her in the world. For now, he must ignore her the way a wolf ignores the other sheep in the pasture. And yes, the black girl is ridiculously easy, but he can’t use her. Maybe another time, but not right now.

After she fires up the Buick, Billy returns his attention to the double doors of the Regency Mall’s AMC 24 Theater that continues to pour dating adolescents fueled by raging hormones, married couples recovering from their seven-year itches, and grandparents attempting to reinforce their bonds with their grandchildren. Bonds severely gnawed by infrequent visits to grandma’s. He watches the crowd with disinterest, and just when he thinks he’s wasted more than two hours, an extremely acceptable target emerges.

“Supreme cream,” he whispers.

Amber Shaw and Brad Overton are on their first date, and it shows. Her silky, shampoo-commercial-like, blonde hair drapes meticulously down her back, stopping just short of her denim jean logo. As she walks too closely to Brad in the warm, sticky, August-in-Florida, night air, her hair sways as if competing with her hips and petite athletic rump, which are only outdone by her Barbie-like makeover and bleached smile. Brad, not to be upstaged by his newfound trophy, is wearing brand-name          everything and an expensive haircut—no, hairstyle, according to his