Better Than Sex Cake

8 - The Hot Shot Reporter Betty turned, searched the riverside community of Norwood where brick homes set high atop stilted scenery. At the next curve she saw both lanes, vacant in the middle. To the right of the road there was a lime bug sprouted in wheat or either a soybean field, upside down. She saw a heavy man, topsy-turvy hanging by his seatbelt. The red head shined. It was hard to make him out clearly in the distance, beneath the yellow shine of sky, where clouds glowed like banked embers. His ears looked almost level with his shoulders. The long pink strip of his tongue hung obscenely from his mouth. The sight of him was a galloping shock, a jolt to her nerve endings. They slowed, watched three volunteers reach the ambulance as the rear doors opened with a steely chatter, and drag a stretcher and a huge saw to the scene. They were sawing with a buried frenzy. “Two hours, fifteen minutes” one of the men yelled, and added, “Did you check his blood pressure again?” Sitting no more that a couple of city blocks from the accident, Betty viewed the house with a guttered crow’s nest, someone on the front stairs, another person in the screened porch area, and a couple of others in whitewashed rocking chairs. Before she realized Steve Cooley was at the side of the commotion, had his tape recorder out, asking questions at jet speed. She felt a chill crawling on the flesh of her arms. Outside the screened porch she saw the men. They were snickering. Her eagle eyes diverted to the gathering Chinese talking at the far corner of their home. The Chinese stood their ground, peered at Todd with a calm but intense expression of a research doctor discovering a new strain of Ebola. They reminded her of seagulls squawking, as her line of sight moved from their outlines to Steve’s figure. The porch of the house was narrow and crooked, the screens visibly warped, rusty and bellied outward. Past the porch was a muddy hog pen, two huge-sized pigs in it. The pigs were even peering at Todd, their squashed-in snouts benevolent and snorting. Babbs thought lime green and pickles had a lot in common. Two medics knelt beside Todd, gloved their hands and gently positioned him, lifting his head back gently. “Significant head lacerations, hotdog jamming his throat,” one medic stated. The other thrust his fingers into his throat to unblock the airway. His partner set up the oxygen, talking into a CB radio. She wanted to run, get back to Steve’s vehicle and thought please let him be alive. She noticed Todd was heaving breath. A female medic shouted out, “There’s a helicopter coming. Where’s the best place to land?” “How’s he doing?” Steve asked. The female medic shrugged, “Probably should be dead.” They listened to sirens round the curves, watch the lights turn into the field, closer and louder. Two state troopers, much too close together, braked, sent grass flying. The passenger door of the patrol car opened and Bernard Bakes stepped out. His stature tall and blonde hair combed back. He walked toward her. Betty stood still. They both stared at Todd. A bulge in his cheek, suggested something trying to escape. Betty raised her penciled eyebrows. 10 - Weather Changes Tom Martin happened to be passing The Heart of Stanly Motel when he witnessed an unbelievable scene. As always his camera was poised next to him. Two Mexican workers had been cleaning rooms when they’d discovered a huge boa underneath a table, slouched under the bed and touching the bathroom floor. Martin was a tall, slim boy, with light pasty skin and a smile that displayed marvelous teeth. Just as he could argue for hours, with intellectual substance, about any type of subject, he was also capable of becoming involved in passionate dialogues on literature, art or sports, especially football, and the feats of the local high school team. There was something in his character that communicated enthusiasm, idealism, generosity, and the rugged sense of religion that guided his life. All of these traits threw him into coordination of the calamity. One of the women, very fluent in Spanish, screamed, called for the Virgin Mary to appear. Her rosary rolled tight tiny fists that flayed upwards. The other woman, huge breasted with jiggly rotund thighs that were excitedly dancing up and down in tune to the fever of the moment hovered close. Tom knew what to do and swung into action. He started texting Steve with no success, then the office. Realizing this could be Thursday’s front page he struck a similar pose as one of the women. Frozen to the rail banister, his mouth O-My-God shaped, his fingers awkwardly opened the shutter and started wildly snapping. A reeled back snake startled from the flashing light hissed a desperate grin. He thought this snake had to be at least fifteen feet and at least ten inches round. A crowd was gathering in the lower parking lot. His recorder caught the precarious whispers, gossip, and awed moments. A big-busted girl with bleached hair, obviously intoxicated, was fast approaching, displaying pyramids of tattoos, and darting a snaggle-toothed smile. She marched into the room demanding everyone to leave. Her vulgar manners shocked Betty. The girl was country-fried stupid, not to mention in need of some enhanced psychiatric drugs. It wasn’t quite checkout time. The owner, Mr. Patina, a gentleman from Shrilanka, dark and rather attractive, entered the scene powered by repulsive-sounding gasps. He’d risen as if from the grave with a tropical suddenness. His flashy shirt and silk pants flashed inside the room. Flaming torches glowed from the wallpaper hung over the wrong-sized furniture, and the bed covers spilled onto the floor inches from Oliver. Apparently, the young girl, named Deborah, Debbie to her friends, howled the snake’s name Oliver in repetition. She was moving her mouth, like she was talking to someone, only no one was there, and no one could hear any words coming out of her. 18 - Challenges She had never experienced anyone in labor. It literally scared her to death. Leo assured her it was normal behavior. The woman was trying to whisper, but her voice choked, and when she forced her next breath up; it came out shrill and wavering. “Make it stop, Antonio.” Everyone was watching, crosscurrents of worried murmuring rattled the customers; people didn’t want to miss what might happen next. The other pregnant waitresses jumped out of the way. “Anyway, who in their right mind would hire so many waitresses in their third trimesters?” Both turned to Antonio. Betty wished she were a doctor. But she was not a doctor, just a reporter on a date, witnessing a painful event. She watched the others, then Leo, who had calmed the crowd and the shrieking woman. It turned out it was Antonio’s wife. Her face was dazed and expressionless, her eyes troubled, the eyes of someone in a zombie state. In the yellow beam of sunlight that fell through the door, her skin was so pale and fine it was almost translucent, looked as if it would bruise at the slightest touch. Babbs squinted back at Antonio’s wife, took her hand, and steadied her on her feet. The night would be long. The woman started yelling again, “I’m going to kill you.”