Another figure stepped over the guardrail. Toes hanging over concrete edging, back pressed flat as fingertips curled loosely around metal edging.
“You, too?” Jake bleated, watching the river course fifty feet below his scuffed shoes.
The man nodded. “Unrelenting pencil pusher. He just won’t stop.”
“Stop what?” The water swirled, coaxing Jake downward.
“Hunting me. Fucking collection agents,” the man spat, the words distasteful in his mouth.
Jake’s brow wrinkled, his mind churning like the current below.
The other man’s voice punctuated his thoughts. “You?”
“Always hot on his trail, but…he keeps eluding me. Slippery motherfucker.”
The two men looked at one another.
Did that shock you? Yes, this is tame for me, but after a week of writing a particularly gruesome tale, I think I needed the break. But – depending on how you look at it (or your own experiences with collection agents) this could very well scare the bejeezus out of you.