Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Sudetenland Tales
Page 405
As they peeled down the street, the bags thumped in the backseat like beating hearts. In the rearview, the SUV didn’t rush. It simply followed. Purposeful. Patient.
“They weren’t chasing the bags,” Roger whispered. “They were herding them. We just picked up the bait.”
They tried to offload the bags in a back alley behind a defunct jazz club. But, the bags swell, impossibly. What once seemed like duffels now loom like sleeping leviathans, stitched in dreams and humming in minor chords. Still holding on, Troy tried to drag his into the producer’s compound and the iron gate refuses him. Not metaphorically. It literally folds inward like paper and vanishes, leaving behind only the scorched shape of a treble clef branded into the dirt.
Thinking the bags were being used against them, and desperate to get rid of them, though Troy was still filled with the prospect of making easy money, they tried the back door of a pawn shop next. The lights flickered, and the shopkeeper, who had the dead eyes and face of Bibi Netanyahu spoke only in reversed lyrics, while surrounded by Israeli flags.