A Flash of Words 2

Tug Travis West

Tug

Travis WestKyle spied Buffy’s pink Corvette amongst the other cars, and a flood of confident machismo surged through his veins. Today was the day he would make Buffy Tart his, and no force of nature could stop him. He guided his BMW into the parking space on the Corvette’s driver side—another piece of luck—and killed the engine.

Buffy was easy to pinpoint in the small crowd gathered in the park. She was easy to pinpoint anywhere; she was all perfection. Her curves were so wild, she hardly seemed real. Kyle exited his car and strode toward the gathering, toward her.

“Kyle, you made it. Yay! I was wondering if you would show.”

“Of course, doll. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a quick peck to his cheek.

His ears grew hot and he hoped like hell he wasn’t blushing.

“You’re just in time, Kyle. We were about to engage in a real tug-of-war battle against our old rivals from Sourville High. You see the guy in the Hawaiian shirt? That’s Vic Morton. A certifiable piece of work, that one. He’ll do anything to win, even cheat.”

Vic was an attractive enough fellow. His hair was nearly identical to Kyle’s—perfectly feathered and parted on the left side, except black, whereas Kyle’s was a dark blond. He wore a perpetual smirk, as did his cronies.

Kyle slid a hand around Buffy’s waist.

“No cheater is gonna win this match on my watch.”

“Well, there’s no time to waste. We’re due to start now,” Buffy exclaimed. She led him by the hand to the volleyball beach to join the others.

The teams had removed the volleyball net. In its place, they had drawn three lines in the sand—the outer lines a yard in either direction from the center. A thick rope lay on the sand. They had placed a blue flag, hanging from the rope’s midpoint on the center line.

“Everybody, this is Kyle,” Buffy called to her waiting friends. She squeezed his right bicep. “He’s big, strong, and exactly what we need to beat those Sourville meanies. Kyle, you’ve met Lulu and Skip. I’ll properly introduce you to Hank and Blaine as soon as we show up these yahoos.”

Everyone put on gloves and found their positions at a knotted handhold for each competitor. Kyle found himself at the head of the group, looking into Vic Morton’s mocking gaze.

“You’re going down new guy,” Vic said. “Buffy, sweet cheeks, after we drag this chump over the line, how about you finally let me take you on a date?”

Buffy gasped. “No way, lamebrain. No Springtown girl would ever go out with a Sour-face like you. All right, on your mark, people. Get set, and—”

“Go!” Vic snapped, and the Sourville crew yanked the rope.

Kyle dug his heels into the sand, and he and the Springtown gang countered with their own hard tug. Kyle’s shoulders creaked; an unbearable pressure built in his arms, shoulders, and down his back. Still, he pulled harder; he would never show an ounce of weakness.

“Pull,” Kyle commanded and dug his feet in deeper.

Vic gritted his teeth, reset his grip, and—as if reading his mind—the entire Sourville gang doubled their efforts.

“No!” Kyle pulled back with all he could muster.

Pop, pop.

Kyle had a split second to revel in the relief of diffused pressure in his shoulders before Buffy, Skip, and the rest of his team slammed him from behind, the lot of them tumbling over the center line.

“We win! Tie broken! Sourville, three. Springtown, two.”

Kyle looked up at Vic and his buddies high-fiving and dancing as they taunted the Springtown team, but no matter how he tried, he could not lift himself from the sand.

Buffy gasped behind him.

Vic Morton guffawed. “Wow! We pulled his arms right out of their sockets.”

“My arms? What?” Kyle searched the ground before him, and there they lay. Stranger by far was his exposed shoulder joint. He had expected a bloody horror show, but instead…

“It’s all the same color,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

“Here, let’s get you to your feet.” Skip lifted him from the ground.

“How is it all the same color?” Kyle asked. “Where’s the bone?”

“You don’t have bones, silly.” Buffy giggled. “You’re plastic.”

“What do you mean, plastic? Stop smiling, Buffy. Why do you keep f*****g smiling?”

“Because it’s all I can do, Kyle. It’s all any of us can do, and please don’t speak such terrible language to me.”

It was true, Kyle realized. No one’s face had so much as twitched. A permanent smile adorned every mug.

“It’ll be okay. He’s fresh out of the package, is all,” Lulu said, one of Kyle’s arms in each hand. “Hank, Blaine, help me pop these back in place.”

“Package? What f*****g package?”

“The one you lived in before you were bought. Now stop cussing or you’re never getting a date with me.” Buffy winked, and Kyle relaxed a little. “You’ll be fine.”

“They can really put my arms on again?”

“Of course. We’ve all been in this same situation more than once. You kind of get used to it.”

“And you’re lucky, because you’re a guy,” Lulu said. “You don’t come with ‘realistic’ hair. That little s**t once tried to cut mine.”

“Who?”

“Our owner’s little brother,” Buffy said. “What a—” Her head lolled backward on her neck, the back of her skull coming to rest between her shoulder blades. She grabbed her head with both hands and returned it to the upright position.

“Sorry, Kyle. Count your lucky stars it was only your arms. Wait until he pulls off your head. Hasn’t fit right since.”