It Has To Be Aliens
I was just coming out of Daffy Dill's, the florist where I'd bought a bouquet of Bluebells to give to Dylan for Valentine's, when I saw him. There was no mistake about it. He had a long face, wide-set eyes, big teeth, a flowing mane and he kind of trotted as he moved in and out of pedestrians on the sidewalk across the street.
"Halt" I yelled and drew my pistol. I had no choice but to pitch the flowers as I took up the chase. A homeless woman, in whose lap I'd thrown the flowers gazed at me longingly. He was about a block ahead of me and as I picked up speed his trot quickly became a gallop. As we turned a corner and descended a set of stairs horse face was in the lead and I was on the rail.
And then he was gone. "What the…". Just like that he had disappeared.
Where the hell did he go I thought. "It has to be the aliens and their tractor beam" I said aloud as passers by started to stare at this wild-eyed, dishevelled dick mumbling something about aliens. "What?" I said to no one in particular. "Happens every day. Aliens just pluck people off the street just like that."
Of course I didn't believe it. The statement was more a coping mechanism than anything else. But he had disappeared. And right before my eyes. But I had seen him. I knew what he looked like now. And I'd describe him to the sketch artist and we'd paper the city with that artist's depiction. It was only a matter of time before we caught him. That is if the aliens let him go first.
"Holy hell, that's it" I exclaimed and in one of those "Damn I could have had a V-8" moves I slapped myself.
Aliens. Illegal aliens. It has to be the aliens!
Before the aliens get you check out the links at We Work for Cheese for how the rest of my blogger buddies handled today's prompt.