#wip
He came again.
The turtle.
The stand hadn’t moved, but everything else had—color bled out of the world weeks ago.
The man behind the counter smiled the same mechanical smile.
“Lemonade?”
That word. It hit like glass grinding inside the skull.
The turtle didn’t answer. The air pulsed, hot and heavy, as he set his claws on the counter. The condensation on the lemonade jar trembled. The buzzing of a single fly grew louder. Too loud.
“Hey,” said the turtle.
“Bomp.”
Pause.
“Bomp.”
Longer pause.
“Bomp.”
The rhythm fractured. The world went still.
He reached beneath his shell. The metal was already warm—like it had been waiting. He raised it, hands steady, heart not.
“Empty it,” he said. “Everything.”
The man stared. “You don’t have to do this.”
It was the way he said you—as if he knew. As if he remembered the other times, the other stands, the other endings.
A drop of sweat slid down the man’s cheek. It reached his chin and hung there, trembling, before falling. The sound it made when it hit the counter was louder than breathing.
“Put your hands up.”
Another voice.
Behind him.
Flat, heavy, absolute.
The turtle turned slowly. The cop was there again, same as before. Maybe the same one. Maybe the only one.
“How did you know?” the turtle asked.
“A little birdy told me.”
The blue bird landed. Its feathers were slick with something dark. Its eyes were small, hollow tunnels.
“Jeff,” the turtle whispered.
(TO BE CONTINUED!)