MOUSETRAP
by Rycke Foreman
Even though he looked like trouble, Bigelow didn’t slow.
He was definitely a punk--and he was looking for trouble, she could tell--but Bigelow could take care of herself. Under all that black leather, earrings and bad attitude, he was just a man. And men were pussycats.
When you showed them the right side...
He was still nearly half a block away, just beyond the mouth of a dim alley, leaning James Dean-like against the wall. Except without the cool. He was eyeballing her. Probably already balling her, too, in some dark corner of his pathetic brain. Bigelow could almost smell his eager desperation drifting over the thin breeze.
Without thinking, she sliced into the alleyway. Within seconds, Bigelow could sense the punk’s dirty presence as easily as she could hear his worn boot heels sounding off the walls.
Clop. Clop. Clop. Clop.
She glanced back, letting worry creep onto her face. He was walking faster than her. The punk tore his eyes off her ass, glued them to her dark eyes. Oh yeah--he was already raping her. The physical part just wasn’t happening yet.
Bigelow stepped up the pace.
Clop clop clop clop.
He was closing, but a break in the alley wasn’t too far away. Just a little farther. A little faster.
Clopclopclopclopclopclop...
She coiled, tense. Almost there...
Clopclopclopclop...
The techno-drumbeat-echo of his boots could almost be the thunder of her anemic heart. Two more steps...
She scurried around the corner, just two yards ahead of the stalker. No sweat for the him--it was a dead end, and he knew it. Mouse trapped.
He rounded the brick building, ready to pounce, but only saw a blur, a glint of wicked teeth as the beast sprung. The punk never knew what hit him.
Perching close to the body, wrapping her skinny tail protectively around herself, Bigelow began to feed on the tasty morsel caught in her mousetrap.
