The Clip-On
Tim and Harold go for a hot-air balloon ride (short fiction).
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Harold and Tim stepped out onto the stretch of grassy airfield that spanned an acre. Together, they walked towards the massive, hot-air balloon. Tim seemed determined while poor Harold shuffled nervously along.
Already waiting inside the basket that had been firmly attached to the balloon was the pilot: an unshaven man not much older than the two businessmen approaching him. His eyes hid behind wind goggles; a tight rubber hat matted down his straggly blonde hair.
“Where do you expect we’ll go, Tim?” asked Harold.
“Oh, I think only a couple miles to the west,” said Tim, gritting his teeth.
“Are you sure? I don’t believe I’ll enjoy this ride very much.”
“Enough with the boohooing. Once we’re in the air, it’ll be smooth sailing. Don’t be a worrywart, boy.”
The businessmen entered the wooden basket and the pilot latched the door shut. He secured his rubber hat one last time with his big, fat mitts before cranking the rope.
“Away we go,” announced the pilot. The balloon began its ascent towards the sky.
Harold set down his briefcase and adjusted his navy blue necktie. It wasn’t long until he plopped onto the floor of the basket and looked up at Tim all googly-eyed.
“Golly,” said Harold. “I just can’t look!” He shielded his eyes with his fingers and kicked his feet like a petulant child. “Oh, what have I agreed to?!”
“You mustn’t rock the basket,” said the pilot.
Tim scoffed and turned to the pilot.
“Oh, can it, you oversized bug.” Tim hated the pilot and his ridiculous goggles. They weren’t sleek and sharp like his own glasses.
The pilot shook his head and looked out over the plains, maneuvering the two men and himself up-up high into a cumulus cloud.
I could surely fly this old balloon better than him, Tim thought. He sneaked a sip out of his flask.
From where Tim stood, the trees on the ground resembled pieces of broccoli. He rolled up his sleeves and planted his legs firmly on the floor of the aircraft.
It’s time.
Employing his mighty strength, Tim reached down and grabbed the pilot by his ankles, then flipped his lanky body right over the side of the basket. The pilot somersaulted through the air with impressive momentum until his body collided with the ground.
There was a great thud.
“Dear God!” shouted Harold as he sank further down onto the floor. “What have you done, Tim?!”
Tim exhaled sharply and grabbed hold of the yoke, steering the hot air balloon upwards—just as he’d been practicing for weeks.
“Open the briefcase, Harold.” Tim looked at his business partner and pushed his very dignified spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose with his index finger. “Now!”
Poor Harold, bewildered and trembling, fidgeted with the locks until they clacked open, then presented the case to Tim. Loose papers flurried in every direction, many of which were sucked out of the basket. Some even soared up-up high into the balloon and were set ablaze!
Consequently, the aircraft jerked southward, causing the wooden enclosure to swing and wobble. Both Harold and Tim slammed into the north side of it. The two narrowly avoided a disastrous reunion with the pilot, who lay belly-up in the grass a thousand feet below.
“You damned fool!” said Tim, and thought it best to punish Harold for his blunder. He kicked poor Harold right in the sternum.
Harold let out a guttural heave and flailed pathetically onto his side while Tim reached into his waistband. He brandished a .22-caliber pistol and pointed it. “Get up.”
“No!” cried Harold.
“I said, ‘get up!’” He kicked Harold again, this time in the upper thigh.
“Bastard! You won’t get away with this!”
Harold carefully hoisted himself up by his arms, maintaining a wide berth between himself and his emboldened business partner.
“Why?” asked Harold. “Why are you doing this?!”
Tim let go of the yoke and tugged Harold’s necktie, pulling him so they stood cheek-to-cheek. Harold held the knot of his tie with a clenched fist, certainly to prevent asphyxiation.
“You know why, you weasel,” Tim shouted over a heavy gust. “Martha!”
Poor Harold, at Tim’s mercy, reached out with his free hand and dug his fingernails into the exterior wall of the basket. He was shorter than Tim and stood helplessly on his tippy toes.
“She comes home late,” said Tim, “and crawls into bed… she reeks of your cheap cologne.”
Harold winced.
“That’s right, I know it’s true. I can see it on your face. How about this? My wife for your life. How does that sound, boy?”
Harold could smell the booze on Tim’s breath as he laughed in his face. Harold gulped hard and braced himself, one hand still clasping his tie. Tim had a drunken vice grip on the other end.
“Alright, it’s true!” said Harold. “You’re right. I’ve been seeing Martha.” Tim pressed the gun into his partner’s ribcage. “But you must understand, old friend...”
“What’s that, you worthless coward?”
“It’s a clip-on,” said Harold. He let go of the navy blue necktie, which instantly unhinged from his collar.
Before he could anchor himself, Tim was thrust backwards by his own weight and toppled out of the basket in one fell swoop. He screamed.
Then he was gone.
All that remained of him was a pair of glasses and a .22-caliber gun on the floor.
Harold peeked his head out over the basket. He watched gravity have its wicked way with his partner, the tie still wrapped around his hand. Seconds later, he landed on the ground below.
There was a great thud.
Bio
“Scott Crain was taught in Broward County, Florida public schools and educated in South Florida bars and stages. As a singer-songwriter, he has long been drawn to stories of the struggle, of love and paychecks that are not enough; of families that work like families should, to a point; of triumph and failure as it is lived in humid, sticky circumstances. Now, he is turning that eye to poetry.
A familiar face on the South Florida music scene, Scott has been a part of a number of bands. He also runs independent record label Unfiltered Southern Grit. His writing mixes humor and indignation, cold-eyed realism and hard-won optimism. He is an exciting young voice whose words thrive on the page as well as they have when coming from a microphone.”
- Erik Petersen
Fun story! Loved it❤️❤️
omg sonnets?? 😍