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Authors: Harold Bloemer
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Lance asks, smothering them in hugs.
Blade and Harpoon break free from Lance and run over to me. I throw my arms
around the kids and squeeze them tight. I nestle my nose into Harpoon’s flowing
blonde hair. I love the way it smells: like lavender-scented strawberries.
“I’ve missed you guys so much,” I say, not ever wanting to let them go.
“What am I, chopped liver?” Krystal asks indignantly, her hands on her hips.
“Krystal!” Blade and Harpoon squeal, running over to my bad-ass friend. Krystal
ruins her image as a blood-thirsty lunatic by wrapping the kids in her arms and
swinging them around.
“Did you all behave while we were gone?” Krystal shouts, still swinging them
back and forth. I chuckle at the sight of Blade and Harpoon’s scrawny legs
swaying back and forth.
“Yes Krystal, now let us down! You’re choking us!” Harpoon screams.
A door down the hall swings open and an elderly woman with curlers in her hair
shouts, “Will you damn kids shut up?! I’m trying to watch my stories!”
“Er, sorry Mrs. Madison,” I say, ushering the kids inside. Lance and Krystal
follow me and we shut the door.
I walk into the living room and immediately feel safe and comfortable. I love
everything about our penthouse apartment: the skylight that looks up at the
stars, the big comfy couch Lance and I always fall asleep on while watching TV,
the holographic TV screen broadcasting the news up on the wall, our cozy
kitchen with an always-filled basket of apples and bananas (I grab one of each
and chow down), our three spacious bedrooms (Lance and I share the same room,
which is great when we’re getting along, but horrible when we fight), and even
our bathroom, which always smells like a flower-filled meadow thanks to the air
fresheners I buy at the store. This is home, the only home I’ve ever known.
This is why my friends and I risk our lives catching crooks, so we can afford
to live in a safe, cozy, luxurious penthouse apartment.
I follow Krystal into the room she shares with her elderly grandmother,
Beverly. Beverly is in bed wrapped in a comforter. She lifts her frail face and
asks, in a creaky voice, “Krystal darling, is that you?”
“Yes Grandma, we made it back in one piece,” Krystal says, kneeling by her
grandmother’s side. “How are you feeling?”
Beverly responds with a series of coughs that seem to wrack her entire body. I
leave Krystal and her grandmother alone and shut the door. We were going to use
our $1 million reward to buy her some stronger medicine, but that plan went out
the window. I can only hope she hangs on until we cash in on another lucrative
bounty, whenever that may be.
Blade and Harpoon are still hopping around like they’re on a sugar high,
telling Lance all about what they did while we were gone. Lance, acting like
their caring father, listens eagerly, asking questions when he can get a breath
in. He takes off his robe, and I gasp when I saw how badly scarred and bruised
his half-naked body looks under our fluorescent lights. The kids notice, too,
because they stop talking about their day and ask Lance if he’s okay.
“Don’t worry about me, guys,” Lance grunts, gripping his right arm. “I’ll be
okay. I just need some rest.”
“Harpoon, please go grab Lance’s robe out of his bedroom,” I say. Harpoon jumps
up and rushes into the room. I open the medicine cabinet and withdraw a bottle
of rubbing alcohol and some gauze.
Lance’s eyes widen in fear. “Oh no, you’re not rubbing that crap on me.”
“Lance, don’t be stupid,” I snap irritably, grabbing his
Blade and Harpoon break free from Lance and run over to me. I throw my arms
around the kids and squeeze them tight. I nestle my nose into Harpoon’s flowing
blonde hair. I love the way it smells: like lavender-scented strawberries.
“I’ve missed you guys so much,” I say, not ever wanting to let them go.
“What am I, chopped liver?” Krystal asks indignantly, her hands on her hips.
“Krystal!” Blade and Harpoon squeal, running over to my bad-ass friend. Krystal
ruins her image as a blood-thirsty lunatic by wrapping the kids in her arms and
swinging them around.
“Did you all behave while we were gone?” Krystal shouts, still swinging them
back and forth. I chuckle at the sight of Blade and Harpoon’s scrawny legs
swaying back and forth.
“Yes Krystal, now let us down! You’re choking us!” Harpoon screams.
A door down the hall swings open and an elderly woman with curlers in her hair
shouts, “Will you damn kids shut up?! I’m trying to watch my stories!”
“Er, sorry Mrs. Madison,” I say, ushering the kids inside. Lance and Krystal
follow me and we shut the door.
I walk into the living room and immediately feel safe and comfortable. I love
everything about our penthouse apartment: the skylight that looks up at the
stars, the big comfy couch Lance and I always fall asleep on while watching TV,
the holographic TV screen broadcasting the news up on the wall, our cozy
kitchen with an always-filled basket of apples and bananas (I grab one of each
and chow down), our three spacious bedrooms (Lance and I share the same room,
which is great when we’re getting along, but horrible when we fight), and even
our bathroom, which always smells like a flower-filled meadow thanks to the air
fresheners I buy at the store. This is home, the only home I’ve ever known.
This is why my friends and I risk our lives catching crooks, so we can afford
to live in a safe, cozy, luxurious penthouse apartment.
I follow Krystal into the room she shares with her elderly grandmother,
Beverly. Beverly is in bed wrapped in a comforter. She lifts her frail face and
asks, in a creaky voice, “Krystal darling, is that you?”
“Yes Grandma, we made it back in one piece,” Krystal says, kneeling by her
grandmother’s side. “How are you feeling?”
Beverly responds with a series of coughs that seem to wrack her entire body. I
leave Krystal and her grandmother alone and shut the door. We were going to use
our $1 million reward to buy her some stronger medicine, but that plan went out
the window. I can only hope she hangs on until we cash in on another lucrative
bounty, whenever that may be.
Blade and Harpoon are still hopping around like they’re on a sugar high,
telling Lance all about what they did while we were gone. Lance, acting like
their caring father, listens eagerly, asking questions when he can get a breath
in. He takes off his robe, and I gasp when I saw how badly scarred and bruised
his half-naked body looks under our fluorescent lights. The kids notice, too,
because they stop talking about their day and ask Lance if he’s okay.
“Don’t worry about me, guys,” Lance grunts, gripping his right arm. “I’ll be
okay. I just need some rest.”
“Harpoon, please go grab Lance’s robe out of his bedroom,” I say. Harpoon jumps
up and rushes into the room. I open the medicine cabinet and withdraw a bottle
of rubbing alcohol and some gauze.
Lance’s eyes widen in fear. “Oh no, you’re not rubbing that crap on me.”
“Lance, don’t be stupid,” I snap irritably, grabbing his
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