When Pigs Fly Read Online Free
Author: Bob Sanchez
scratched, the itch moved—behind his ear, down to his Adam’s apple.
Nice thing about robbing old people was their places seemed so homey, with afghans, stale-smelling boxes of kitty litter, and pictures of great-grandchildren looking so freaking adorable. Ace and Frosty just wanted to score a couple bills, maybe the old folks just cashed their Social Security check or left their Bingo winnings on the nightstand. There were moral standards to uphold, naturally, so Ace would never take all the cash. If he found a couple of fifties, he’d take one and leave one. If he found only one, he’d take it but feel bad. What if it was all the poor geezers had?
Ace and Frosty went down in the bulkhead, which was rotting at the hinges. Right away they both caught a face full of spider webs they had to pick off their tongues. They hated spiders. Frosty said the ones that didn’t have poison sacs in their ass might carry plague germs that make your skin explode. Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t full of shit, as little brothers often are.
Piles of junk were all over the place. National Geographics, possibly every one published since Honest Abe chopped down the cherry tree. Dolls, garden hoses, dozens of cardboard boxes, a rusty bicycle, lamps, a green lawn mower, a radiator with a crank in the front that must have been popular in the Ice Age. Ace stepped on something, and a rake handle whacked him in the face. That stung like a hornet and made him see lots of purple and lemony spots for a minute, but Ace wiped his face and didn’t notice any blood.
They tiptoed up the cellar stairs, every one creaking as quiet as a bullhorn. They pushed a door leading past the end of a hallway and into the kitchen, which was as quiet as Ace’s heartbeat. A bouquet of flowers decorated the kitchen table. Frosty sneezed quietly into his shirt. Then he opened the fridge, and Ace pushed it shut. Pictures of kids and puppies decorated the fridge door, and a magnet held up a lottery ticket and a few envelopes.
“This is business,” Ace whispered, flipping through the mail, his face hurting like he’d been hit with a stick. There were no checks, and he knew the lottery ticket was a loser, because he made it his business to know stuff like that. They went through the kitchen cabinets and even under the sink, since old people hid valuables in odd places. Frosty looked at Ace and shrugged.
In the living room, a fireplace mantel held family pictures and bric-a-brac. Ace checked it all out quickly while Frosty looked under a bunch of papers on the coffee table. They were careful never to toss a place; they wanted to be long gone before anyone guessed what had happened. They lifted sofa cushions, and Ace pocketed seventy-five cents. Sometimes all you got didn’t even pay for gas money. The side tables didn’t have anything worth squat, and a peek under the couch just turned up an army of dust bunnies. The carpet had a couple of stains Ace didn’t even want to think about; he picked up a scrap of paper and put it in the trash.
They went down a dark hall and pushed open a bedroom door. There were lace curtains, a king-sized bed with a brass frame and a library book on a blue pillow, an exercise bicycle with a white towel draped over the handlebar. A small rack of pink dumbbells sat on the carpet by the wall. Frosty poked inside an open package of Depends sitting next to the dresser. Nothing interesting there. On the wall hung a framed photo of a woman standing in front of an old shack and a big cactus. The picture was stained and creased, and the lady was older than Moses’ aunt. He looked behind the frame: no hidden safe.
Ace flipped through a Bible that sat on the dresser, but found no money stashed inside. Ditto the drawers filled with creams, pills, powders, lipsticks, rollers, coins, loose stamps, and a whole confusion of the mysterious underthingies women wore. Where was all the great stuff his instinct told him
Nice thing about robbing old people was their places seemed so homey, with afghans, stale-smelling boxes of kitty litter, and pictures of great-grandchildren looking so freaking adorable. Ace and Frosty just wanted to score a couple bills, maybe the old folks just cashed their Social Security check or left their Bingo winnings on the nightstand. There were moral standards to uphold, naturally, so Ace would never take all the cash. If he found a couple of fifties, he’d take one and leave one. If he found only one, he’d take it but feel bad. What if it was all the poor geezers had?
Ace and Frosty went down in the bulkhead, which was rotting at the hinges. Right away they both caught a face full of spider webs they had to pick off their tongues. They hated spiders. Frosty said the ones that didn’t have poison sacs in their ass might carry plague germs that make your skin explode. Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t full of shit, as little brothers often are.
Piles of junk were all over the place. National Geographics, possibly every one published since Honest Abe chopped down the cherry tree. Dolls, garden hoses, dozens of cardboard boxes, a rusty bicycle, lamps, a green lawn mower, a radiator with a crank in the front that must have been popular in the Ice Age. Ace stepped on something, and a rake handle whacked him in the face. That stung like a hornet and made him see lots of purple and lemony spots for a minute, but Ace wiped his face and didn’t notice any blood.
They tiptoed up the cellar stairs, every one creaking as quiet as a bullhorn. They pushed a door leading past the end of a hallway and into the kitchen, which was as quiet as Ace’s heartbeat. A bouquet of flowers decorated the kitchen table. Frosty sneezed quietly into his shirt. Then he opened the fridge, and Ace pushed it shut. Pictures of kids and puppies decorated the fridge door, and a magnet held up a lottery ticket and a few envelopes.
“This is business,” Ace whispered, flipping through the mail, his face hurting like he’d been hit with a stick. There were no checks, and he knew the lottery ticket was a loser, because he made it his business to know stuff like that. They went through the kitchen cabinets and even under the sink, since old people hid valuables in odd places. Frosty looked at Ace and shrugged.
In the living room, a fireplace mantel held family pictures and bric-a-brac. Ace checked it all out quickly while Frosty looked under a bunch of papers on the coffee table. They were careful never to toss a place; they wanted to be long gone before anyone guessed what had happened. They lifted sofa cushions, and Ace pocketed seventy-five cents. Sometimes all you got didn’t even pay for gas money. The side tables didn’t have anything worth squat, and a peek under the couch just turned up an army of dust bunnies. The carpet had a couple of stains Ace didn’t even want to think about; he picked up a scrap of paper and put it in the trash.
They went down a dark hall and pushed open a bedroom door. There were lace curtains, a king-sized bed with a brass frame and a library book on a blue pillow, an exercise bicycle with a white towel draped over the handlebar. A small rack of pink dumbbells sat on the carpet by the wall. Frosty poked inside an open package of Depends sitting next to the dresser. Nothing interesting there. On the wall hung a framed photo of a woman standing in front of an old shack and a big cactus. The picture was stained and creased, and the lady was older than Moses’ aunt. He looked behind the frame: no hidden safe.
Ace flipped through a Bible that sat on the dresser, but found no money stashed inside. Ditto the drawers filled with creams, pills, powders, lipsticks, rollers, coins, loose stamps, and a whole confusion of the mysterious underthingies women wore. Where was all the great stuff his instinct told him
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