from TRANSLATOR OF KILL

(Adventures of Jeb and F. Scott Espectaculo)


“Oh predator, my predator,” had been scrawled. At first Jeb thought it paint.
“Nope, it’s nylon based. Not latte, not matte.” He pauses. “Not Texmex,” said F. Scott Espectaculo, looking up from a putty knife in one hand, his watch in the other, as if telling time over Thanksgiving dinner.
“I couldn’t care less if it’s nylon or Dacron, this sprawl has a ripe n’ healthy pallor compared to our last precinct,” Jeb flashed.
“True. True,” F. Scott’s voice trails off, as if thinking of his first time.
“Let me jog your memory. Come on, it’ll be exertion.”
“Sur—“
“You did it standing up—“
“Nor—
“We were near the bagelhop, the east side of town, see, and the parking lot was full
cop cars, too thick for a crime. They’d nab the moment you uttered the word ‘killgun,’ remember? The dancing Shriner with the capgun quit bothering us, his hatful of sprigs from God knows what, running around, owning the place, pinching everyone’s nose and chuckling, ‘I’m a Jesus child, I’m a Jesus child.” Remember?” Jeb stopped.
Espectaculo looked up from his watch. It was 2:10. Jueves, August 23.
“Shit. I’d almost forgotten. Wasn’t he the head of some international spelling crime meeting here in town for a few days? You said not to be hasty. That one?” F. Scott’s voice had been ascending in pitch. This last one nearly a shriek, like a soprano.
“But in this case…the perp had raided Home Lumber, Paints & Construction to find this mix. It’s rare. I think they use it in racing,” Jeb huffed.
We should get to the bottom of each word’s roots.