fb.i

It figures. They were just talking about Rod, and there
he was.

Not ten minutes before, they’d been walking along the
trail and Brad’d been listening to the kids complaining about their neighbour,
and he’d finally given voice to his own fears about Rod, and there Rod was in
line at the Three Sister’s Dairy Bar.

He heard, “Ugh, there’s Rod,” issue a little too
loudly from one of his freshly teenage twins, Brontë, then he heard her twin sister
Katy pipe up with, “What?! Where?” He caught Harrison in a “don’t-say-anything”
look before he could open his lips, but Rod didn’t seem to notice their words
or them as they approached the line, two places behind him.

Rod was in a heated discussion with a short, round man
that Brad liked to think of as “Bowling Ball.” He was one of Rod’s work crew, and he looked none too
happy about something. It was probably nothing serious. Probably some work
related bullshit, some mistake of Bowling Ball’s crew that needed to be sorted
out, some debate over payment or benefits or work conditions – some prol
bullshit – nothing more serious than that. But Brad couldn’t get his mind off Brontë’s
theory that Rod was a serial killer and that his construction company was a
John Wayne Gacy style front for his nasty habits. Perhaps Brad should try to
curtail her morbid fascination with the macabre. “Naaah,” he thought, “It’s way
too much fun.” But while the kids debated the flavours they’d be requesting on
their cones, Brad couldn’t help picking up bits and pieces of conversation from
Rod and Bowling Ball.