The Captain found himself behind the wheel of a rattling rusty pick-up, wandering between families of the moment. Meandering the relentless road, long before any moment members expected the arrival of the fantastic forehead, a treat was offered, at least that was the candy dancing trough the Captain’s mind.

Sitting at a traffic signal under the dusk of a long day, waiting for the red light’s distain to dissipate and approve his progress, the Captain watched a flowing sweetness exit a postal station with her mail and cross the street in front of his crumbling cab. The candy was packaged sweet, the kind that can be inhaled and held. Her eyes captured the Captain’s and locked their purpose.

Taking a detour of destination, the candy veered midstream and headed toward the door opposite the Captain’s. Smiling unknowingly, the Captain watched the sweet treat open the door.

Metal etching metal sung as the door was pulled ajar and she slid halfway into the car, asking, “I haven’t done this before, but it’s so hot outside. Do you mind giving me a ride home? I’m just around the corner?”

Struggling for words, while wrestling with the hope the sweet treat sitting on the seat next to the Captain presented, the Captain answered firmly, “Uhhhhhhh, sure,” and pushed the papers and stale clothes on the seat between them to the floor in quick, chivalrous fashion.

Concerned about where the conversation might lead, what words might reveal, the Captain hesitated long enough for the simple beauty to ramble. The Captain needed to reveal nothing, as Her Sweetness went on and on and on and on and… Her voice was the sound of syrup raining down upon a well buttered stack of pancakes. The Captain wanted a bite of the warm goodness.

Minutes passed into more minutes, which passed into additional minutes, and then seconds upon minutes. The sun set and the Captain sat in his comfortless cab with the hope that he may lay stuck to the stickiness dripping syrup. The Captain waited, patiently, hoping for an invite to unwrap the candy. The invitation arrived.

“You’re so nice. Quiet, but nice. I like quiet. Would you like to come in?”

The Captain knew what he wanted. “Yeah,” he answered, boldly.

Watching the wrapper cling and caress, the Captain followed promise into her apartment. This was the moment, the time in transit when the Captain would capture in coup the cream of cumly custard extraction.

Dreams are too often short lived, especially dreams of a simple moment’s seizure.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” the Captain heard shouted behind his taste anticipating head, after walking no more than a few feet into possibility.

Mouth formed, prepared to respond to the threat of the eliminatable evil, the Captain spun to spew, but the shine of highly polished steel — a glistening snub-nosed gun — greeted the Captain’s glare.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here!?” the diminutive despot demanded.

The Captain offered a heads-up, “Hey?” stalling, while the souring sweetness jumped in to defend the gesturing greatness.

“Leave him alone, Tray. He just gave me a ride home. You aren’t supposed to be here! Get out! He’s just a friend. I just met him! Leave!!!” she pleaded, hoping to demand.

“What do you want me to do?” the Captain asked askew, watching the twitching Tray and his plight partner, who found laughter, guttural laughter, in the deadly drama.

“Get the fuck out of here, bald pussy! Just get your fuckin’ ass out of here, before you pee your diapers!”

The Captain moved toward the door, hands in the air. Moving slowly, deliberately, so as to not start the tweaker, who pushed the gun closer to the Captain’s cind face of frustration, the Captain exited.

Returning to the truck in defiance of the souring sweetness’ demand to stay as her guest, the Captain sat and caught his breath. In the mirrors of the pick-up, he caught the past of possibility arguing. The Captain was at a loss. He put the vehicle in gear, backed away from the perfect centering of his parking space and began to exit.

“What to do?” the Captain pondered.

“No! Don’t leave! Please, don’t go! You’re a good man! You’re a decent man. Please!!!!” she shouted as the Captain drove away from the pistol packing punk.

Driving around the far side of the building, the Captain paused his vehicle of vigor. He could not leave without cause, and fate of purpose always presents a plan. Calling a friend in the department of crime chronicling, the Captain looked at the mail the creamy chewtoy left behind and gave the fearless friend as officer the information he needed if it became necessary to clean-up the affair upon the Captain’s demise or destruction.

The friend promised immediate aid, but the Captain is never patient for a cleaning crew. Exiting the vessel virile, the Captain went to work.

As purpose of fate’s fickleless hand, in the back, in the bed of the truck, the Captain was fortunate enough to have a can of gas that was to be used to fuel the compound’s whirling weed eater and a single wide-mouthed empty bottle that once held fuel for the Captain’s thirst demand, and was being saved for its many cent return deposit possibility. The fuel was poured into the bottle, and a sock that had been pushed to the floor to make room for possibility was dipped in gas and stuffed into the bottle of justice juice.

To fight the good fight and the fight of good in the clean underwear of another day, the Captain had to survive the small pieces of lead loaded into tweaker Tray’s polished pistol. He considered a drive-by toss, but decided it was too dangerous to the young citizenry that played about the apartment building’s perimeter. The Captain walked his way through the maze of parked cars, hoping the opportunity to serve a cocktail would arise before badged clean-up crews of blue arrived.

After a bit of screaming, her sweetness slammed the door and the pistol packing plumage returned to his car with his feckless friend. The Captain found his moment. Lighting the sock, the Captain tossed the bottle of bitter blazing justice gently into the back of their banged and bruised white sedan. Somehow, someway, the high hooligans did not see the flame. The Captain scratched his head, confounded and confused by their absurd non-observance.

Not waiting for the proper papered cleansing crew of policing, the Captain turned his back on the car that was about to be engulfed in flames, flames that would chase and chastise the tweak freaks.

The Captain left, limping out of the parking lot, knowing only that he would not taste the taffy he tried to take as treat. As strong as his sweet-tooth may be, he knows his flesh is still made of the mortal material that is prone to tear when pierced by the punch of hot lost lead.

Another evening of promise punctuated by the purposelessness of punks, but the Captain cannot give up hope that his sweet-tooth will be satisfied soon, perhaps even by a postal patron who left her mail in the cab of justice’s junk journeyer — this time, the detour would have to be destined to the compound of the curtailed Captain.

To suck on the syrup of existence, the Captain must wait. The battle of righteous goodiness can strain the good, who on occasion just needs a piece of candy! The Captain needs a taste! A piece of dark chocolate drawn across the tongue… Just a taste. Just a taste will sustain. To place the pliable lips of good on the…

Justice needs the juice of joy to find purpose in its actions, or at least the promise of possibility.


Just a nibble…