By Scott O'Neill
Charlie stormed out his front door at 3 a.m., as ‘Greensleeves’ tinkled tinnily from the ice cream truck creeping around the street corner on its tenth lap.
Eddie Gaskin from three houses up marched toward the truck. Eddie’s shouts critiqued the driver’s intellect (miniscule), hygiene (egregious), and parentage (interspecies).
With a turbo-charged roar, the truck ran Eddie down.
Charlie froze.
The driver’s eyes glowed red as the music changed to ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ Charlie felt, rather than saw, a wicked smile forming below the glowing eyes.
The truck’s engine sang a bestial horsepower hymn.
Charlie didn’t have time to scream.
Yikes! I may never go near an ice cream truck again. Perfect title, both literal and misleading.
Wicked – the humor and the driver.