The Local Catch Of The Day

It was once believed in a province protected by a polished rainbow arch, giants roamed the suburbs, but inside the hilly concrete city a small meek royal character Forty-Niner Francisco resided counting discovered legal tender, captured streaming the local waterways.

“History states I am a King,” the business maverick clearly remarked, taking off a small bifocal instrument that assisted him in studying the shiny dust, “if it was not for that lass that my great great grandpa chased and hooked up with, I would be formally a monarch legend, not a subjective figure head.”

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted an intellectual knight catching Franscisco off guard, surprising the unknown noble, wanting recognition.

“Yes, come in, Steinbeck, my faithful scribe,”

“There is news that a white collared warrior magically moved numbers around, twisting their placements and escaped from the island prison.”

“Really, Steinbeck,” Francisco acted surprised.

“He is on the run and,”

Suddenly, the antique entry protecting the abandoned lighthouse knocked, “For Cape Cod sakes, go answer it, Steinbeck.”

With nothing to fear, the loyal servant slowly went over, pulling the wooden blockade, “Mr. Jones, the celebrity real estate magnet.”

“Oh, it’s you,” the uninvited visitor acknowledged, “I remember you from my trial, the reporter.”

“Yes,” Steinbeck confirmed, “you played with the bears and cubs, then American Blackhawk bull heated up, and the wildlife style investment you made tanked.”

“Steinbeck, you were always the note taker.”

“And now I am writing the tell all series stories about King Francisco, the affluent leader.”

“A rich leader? Steinbeck, well,” Mr. Jones addressed the individual immersed in microscopic mining, reading a leprechaun's four-leaf teabag fortune.

“What are you looking for?”

“Gold,” Francisco answered, “I prove this mess is worth anything, my name will be well known,”

“Isn’t it all ready, with the financial wealth?” Mr. Jones snarled.

Not saying a word, Francisco returned, wiping a nugget, making the particle chunk glitter, “I want to be just like this sampling and get a real chance to profit.”

“Steinbeck,” Mr. Jones reversed direction, turning attention, finding an audience, “does this landmark still have that outdoor porch?”

“Go up the stairs, and there is plenty of guiding brightness,” Steinbeck foreshadowed the next couple hours, knowing the reflective setting mapped out a heavenly journey, wanting to lure Mr. Jones down the spiritual path.

Bestowing a rational mind state, Mr. Jones performed a quiet disappearing feat, and Francisco never flinched, until the room stood silent.

“Steinbeck!” Francisco called and a second later the money hungry King felt a soul protecting presence, “what was the real reason Mr. Jones ended up exiled to Convicts Cove?”

“Wrath grapes,” Steinbeck answered conveying a relaxed, retired attitude, carrying the latest paper back writer’s fantasies, “they were sour, and he stomped them to a pulp.”

Dimming the small illuminating device Francisco stood up steadily keeping balance showing powerful traits. Creaking along, Francisco rejected the bedroom and chose the winding steps instead, calmly ascending, reaching the structure’s highest point. Arriving at the summit he pushed the door, and a flash travelled right left then left right, changing its position, warning everyone, sailing the maritime roads.

“Mr. Jones?” Francisco exclaimed, “are you appreciating the evening’s naturalistic beauty?”

“Do you know how many spells I concocted to move numbers around?” Mr. Jones inquired. Hands in pockets Francisco guessed, “six, nine, nine, six,” he paused and tried again, “one, three, three one.”

Bench sitting Mr. Jones laughed, “no.”

“You know the wizards have not been seen all season,” Francisco mentioned, “I guess you magic warriors had it all under wraps.”

“The right combination?”

“Yes, the right combination,” Francisco seemed flustered, “Which was?”

“Simply put, one, two, three, three, two, one and bingo bango the cell opened declaring, ‘your free’”

“Free from?”

“Executing a despicable scenario, encouraging strangers to whine, saying I am a murderer,”

“You stomped wrath grapes,” Francisco clarified, “did you enjoy getting the juice?”

“Yup,” Mr. Jones affirmatively grinned, “they were very sour and had it coming.”

“Was it worth the money?” Francisco continued the investigation.

“Yup.”

Finishing the final chapter, Steinbeck closed his imagination, deciding the time had come, make a point, stage a justifying scene. Due to the deceptive dusk appearance, simple objects and actions turn deadly, instigating the information distributor, influencing him grab one sharp silverware kitchen item, then hide the weapon.

Taking time, Steinbeck digested the situation, confirming the sinful strategy controlled his thoughts allowing a mild breeze to enter, cooling the opening, and the air condition effect had no influence on the burning emotions plaguing Steinbeck.

Hearing chit chat voices, communicating, featuring gossipy tones, talking about nothing important the soon to be assassin, made the final commitment. Not making a sound Steinbeck took over Francisco’s space, using the spotlight transition illumination as a distraction.

“Did you enjoy stomping the wrath grapes?”

“Yes, Francisco, I told you earlier I did,” Mr. Jones confessed, “they were sour. You're not Francisco.”

“No, I am not,” Steinbeck smiled, “if you focus on that vivid illusion, it will guide you in the right direction, on your next journey, experiencing the greatest God blessed independence.”

“Steinbeck, what are you doing?”

Within an instant Steinbeck’s surgical maneuver unleashed flowing blood, leaving Mr. Jones’ vein, immediately drying up, spending not even a minute experiencing a new world.

“Don’t let him fall,” Francisco commanded, “there is lots of sanguine fluid there, to be stocked up.”

“That is right,” Steinbeck secured the deceased, safely transporting the cadaver.

“I got the legs, you grab the upper body and we both can bring him below,” Francisco offered. Working together they brought the man produce downstairs and were welcomed with a glowing kitchen and an enthusiastic friendly inhabitant.

“Valkyrie,” Francisco greeted, nearly dropping his responsibility.

“Word got out that Mr. Jones unlocked the combination and I calculated his beefcake shipment would be provided tonight.”

“That is great,” Francisco approved, “we need the refrigerator filled.”

“Why don’t you boys go to bed, and let Valkyrie create some tasty golden warrior magic,” the guest suggested bringing restful peaceful sentiments to a killer’s eternal bon voyage party.