Manhattan Loverboy Read Online Free

regally as he surveyed his small army returning to its bivouac for the night. Each worker was a brush stroke on the master’s canvas. Exiting the building, he carried the thinnest briefcase I had ever seen. He moved in quick lines, like a back-row chess piece. I followed at a distance. He tried to hail a cab, but there were none. Why no car was waiting for him, I couldn’t fathom. He finally gave up and just walked. As we pressed through TriBeCa and up through a section of Chinatown, the streets became mysteriously empty. An opportunity was slowly unveiling itself. Soon, the two of us had the streets to ourselves. It was a study in contrast: he had billions, I had only bills.
    The hour of vengeance was upon him. I increased my pace, closing in for the kill. Street sounds faded with the daylight. As we walked on those antique cobblestones of SoHo, only the hollow echo of our footsteps could be heard. Gradually, he sensed that he was being followed. He took casual detours and caught glimpses of me, a distorted figure in storefront windows. I watched him trying to remain calm; panicking might hasten his abduction. Soon, he started picking up his pace.
    Like a master hunter, I could feel his heart slamming around in his chest, trying to get out. Like the gnu stalked by the lioness, he knew that wherever I finally intersected with him would be his death. Anxiety was having a field day: STAB OUT MY EYES, CRUNCH THE BONES IN MY LIMBS, RIP OUT MY TONGUE, BUT END THE TORTURE! Stripped of office rank and the brigades of subordinates, divested of communicative services and computer hookups, estranged, unplugged, deprived, and cut off from all his engines, generators, resources, strategies, and foot soldiers, the emperor wasn’t merely naked, he was nude.
    Faster he walked. His body lurched and jerked. He tried to run but the leash of reason held tight. Just walk faster, faster! It was like watching a silent film. I slapped my shoes hard on the pavement, giving the impression I was finally swooping down on the trembling bunny. Finally, he threw down the paper-thin briefcase and broke into a run. But suddenly, the pavement rose and tripped him into a muddy puddle.
    He floundered a moment, but his large arms hoisted him from the ground. It was then that I realized that he was truly big, no, large, no, towering. When he slipped back into the puddle, falling sideways, he resembled a collapsed crane. Twice my size, pillowed in muscles: If he had ever turned to face his rock-slinging David, he’d have seen that there was nothing to fear but fear itself. I walked away discreetly yet triumphantly.
    “Hey,” I heard a thunderous bellow. Springing to his feet, he had finally mustered the courage to face the enemy. Yikes!
    I raced, he chased. I dashed to West Broadway and skedaddled into some artsy-fartsy gallery. I ducked behind a postmodern, primitive expressionist piece. He soon loomed from behind a neoclassical sculpture. I raced back outside, into the Rizzoli Bookstore, and up the long flight of steps, squealing, “Help! Help!”
    At the top step, I grabbed a huge, hundred dollar art book and held it above my head like a mighty boulder. He stood at the base of the steps below.
    “He chased me,” Whitlock explained to the security guard who was holding him at the base of the stairs. “He tried to steal my wallet or something.”
    “That’s crazy,” I said, still holding the book menacingly.
    “Just don’t hurt the book,” the security guard appealed. Whitlock turned and stormed out. After a moment, I put the art book down and left. I had scored one for the little people. Thankless and un-laureled, I returned home. It had been a long day.

CHAPTER TWO

    ONLY FART
WHEN EXITING
    The next afternoon, I went to Professor Flesh and pleaded for some minuscule-interest, ceaselessly long-term payment arrangement for my last semester registration fees. He said he was the wrong person to appeal to; however, my presence was required in the