Walking The Boardwalk Plank- An American Romantic-Gothic Fable

Waves crashed using clawing and scratching methods, firmly planting salty remains upon the beachy landmass.

Boardwalk sitting, hot dog personality DJT stared into the post Labor Day air, waiting for the conjuring seasonal cold spell, change baseball wagering scripts, creating profitable spread football plotlines, “such a beautiful sight,” the city slicker entrepreneur stated, admiring the natural phenomenon.

Turning his head, the game player interpreted the Kathak Casino sign, live out its final days before hearing a barker yell, “round-and-round it goes, where it stops only those in the executive offices know.”

Standing up, flaunting pinstripe cover magazine attire, the well-known wealthy American promotional character invaded a theatrical style Roman uniformed military dressed tease, “Vacarro,” DJT called, “do you got something for me?”

“And the winner of a stuffed animal is,” Vacarro answered, “number seven. Yeah, boss, I do.”

Within a second, emerged a postal stack, “well, you always made a good mail boy.”

“Got me where I am today,” Vacarro proudly declared.

“A male image of sugar taffy,” DJT commentated under his breath, flipping through the processed material, “junk, junk, junk, whoa what is this?”

“Hey DJT!” Screamed a bikini top collegiate age student wearing shorts, gliding along sporting roller skates, “I am working the runway down at the Bowling Alley Club.”

“Are you old enough? Chicken Woman,” DJT inquired.

“Just turned eighteen,” referenced the full time academic, who had her way with poultry fingers.

“Isn’t that where they said, if this place doesn’t put you in the gutter, we will,”

“But if you get the turkey, you will be spared,” the individual defended, “it was a Thanksgiving gimmick.”

Smiling DJT attention priorities returned and continued filtering through advertisement correspondences, “you have been pre-approved, I can put this in her name.”

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Published story telling accounts flanked the surroundings, “I feel like I am in the library,”

“DJT, the lounge holds the periodical collection,” Vanna announced.

“You got to love what is on the menu,” DJT retorted.

“A rare fine piece of beef for my dedicated listener,” Vanna grinned.

“That is very nice,” DJT positively responded handing her a plastic card, “and Vanny I have something for you.”

“And what is this?”

“Another already cleared authorized credit allowance,” DJT told her watching the cell phone materialized, seeking immediate acceptance buttons pushed.

“Ah yes, I needed that,” Vanna exclaimed, “I am going to buy dinner.”

“You are too kind,” DJT accepted, understanding the charge will come back to haunt him.”

“Why don’t we go north and spend Thanksgiving at my Windmill?”

“Perfect,” DJT acknowledged, “where did I ever find you?”

Vanna’s professional credible title, Chief Executive Officer of the Woven Stockings and Boots Corporation, came long before meeting DJT. Being around her successful financial business affairs stimulated his aging mind, giving added investment ideas. Not knowing how she fabricated mass manufactured leg and footwear, whose famous warming features instigated rapid blood flow, DJT’s heart softened lowering his guard, welcoming love.

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Fluttering butterflies encouraged DJT’s nervous system, presenting its adolescent zone, as Vanna occupied the power seat. “They have bonfires all the way down the street,” DJT noted.

“Community tradition,” Vanna reported, “it reminds them about how we were freed from any bloodsucking individuals stopping gothic discussions.”

“That is right, Pilgrims and how the British got wooden teeth,”

“Yes,” Vanna clarified, road focused nearing an enchanting Windmill overlooking the scenic photo rest area.

“This is the Windmill?” DJT wondered, “I thought it was a lighthouse.”

“Oh, there are two lighthouses next each other a few more miles north, they look identical.”

“Twin lighthouses such a bright idea,” DJT nervously chatted.

“They give tours,” Vanna paused, “during the day, school children visitors.”

Commanding the driver’s seat, Vanna drove the cowboy friendly transportation close to the business establishment and parked the pickup truck. Stepping out, she warned DJT, “be really careful; the ice could be very dangerous,” confident the affluent giant would slip. “I see what you mean,” DJT remarked, making Vanna grab his arm, laughing.

Expecting a boutique shoppe, DJT surprised grin noted seeing a yarn spinning machine neighboring a computer.

“I guess my facade has been unearthed,” Vanna announced, “those two electronic gizmos create my designer products, when I receive an order.”

“Vanna, I am impressed and would love a demonstration,” DJT requested but after turning around three hundred sixty-degrees, no one was there, “where did Vanna go?”

From out of nowhere a red headed stranger carrying the good book entered, “Vanna you were a blonde a minute ago.”

“Changed my image, now a redhead,” Vanna smirked, “you asked for a,”

“Demonstration,” DJT honestly admitted obtaining a simple chair awaiting Vanna’s reading.

Hours passed, and Vanna never lost any breath telling a tale where a Governor who had keen eyesight sailed along, worrying about nothing until the vacationing luxury cruise ship state leader resided, collided with a frozen mountain rising from its deep blue depth location.

“Today, they call what he hit, Keen’s berg and the Governor blinded by his successful light drowned, perished, destined as food, delighting bitter adapted sharks,” Vanna closed the text noticing DJT asleep.

“Oh, I am glad you are peacefully resting,” Vanna whispered, confirming boring someone to death can kill a loving partner, and as the witching hour arrived, she concluded DJT’s legendary fable should get a reimagination then activated the yarn spinning green illuminated go switch.