Patrick C. Crowell
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"Oh, my God!" Immanuel Powers screamed when he, Davila and Candi arrived at the bloody mess. The ride had stopped, and they climbed down the catwalks.
"Man! Did she get nailed!" Isaiah Davila said. He was like a young boy, mesmerized at the sight of something gross. "Oh, that's wild!"
Candi’s messed-up mind saw things all too clearly, and then, there was utter horror. There was her beautiful friend, a sensuous, young woman with whom she had related in more ways than one, lying there with her arm ripped off, and with her head impaled on a piece of sharp steel. Stark reality jerked her off her high.
Debbie's dead! She’s dead, and it's horrible! "You fuckin’ asshole!" she screamed as she began to pound on Power's back. "You killed my friend! My beautiful friend! You fuckin’ killed her!"
It was an accident! It wasn’t mah fault!” Powers shrieked, jumping away from her, but realizing it was no good. He fended off the hysterical party-girl and turned to Davila. "What are we going to do?" He was frantic, worried about being caught, worried that he had ruined everything. "The old man will kill me!"
"Pipe down! Let me think," Davila replied. "Calm down!" he yelled, lunging at Candi and grabbing her wild arms. "For Christ's sake!"
The ops-manager had been watching on the computer monitors with intense interest, but when he saw the girl climb out of the moving car and fall, it all happened so fast, he couldn’t react quickly enough to stop the ride in time. He rushed to the scene, unsure of what to say or do.
"Ah need to call mah Deacons," Davila decided. "They’ll know how to handle this." He reached into his pocket and flipped open his cell phone. Punching in two numbers, he glanced at the ops-manager. While wishing there wasn’t another witness, he was at least relieved that he had some muscle to control the woman. No sooner than the evangelist’s intense eyes led him to the agitated girl, the ops-manager grabbed her tight about the shoulders as she squirmed.
"Ah need you immediately," he spoke calmly into the cell phone. After a brief pause he explained where.
Candi began to think fast. Famous evangelist. Presidential candidate. My friend … dead. Ah've got to get the hell out of here! She watched as the horrified Powers looked like he was about to cry. She sensed it wasn’t empathy for her friend, confirming her equation and the certainty that there’d be no compassion for her, either.
"The Deacons will be here in a few minutes," Davila said with solace in his voice, as though he knew they’d fix everything.
"Oh, God," Powers lamented. "Why does this stuff always happen to me?"
Man, he’s real concerned about the poor dead girl, the ops-manager thought. Sure makes you wonder about these guys. But his musings were cut short by an abrupt elbow to his ribs and then a sharp, piercing pain between the bones of his right foot as he realized that the young blonde he was holding had stomped her spiked high heel onto his tennis shoe.
"Augh!” He involuntarily released her, and no sooner than he did, she kicked off her shoes and bolted to the door and elevator beyond.
Nervous as a caged animal in the descending lift, all Candi could think was that she wanted to be far away … fast. It was instinctual fear that she’d end up like her friend. On the ground floor, squeezing through the door before it fully opened, the adrenalized woman was gone as rapidly as her sexy legs could take her.



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