"I told you", Grant screamed into the cellphone,
"Check the garbage can, or dumpster, closest to that billboard. In it - once you get past the smoke, so cover your bloody face - you will find a dead animal; most probably a cat, or part of one...do it!"
Each syllable was enunciated with such clarity that the consonants scraped along the phone, tragically, as if he was explaining directions to get to the school bus to a mentally challenged child - for the fortieth time.
He slammed the cellphone against the chest of the blankfaced uniform staring up at the sign, until his hand snaked up and closed over it, jaw dropping.
As his hand closed over the set, and Grant strode away, the remaining light bulbs around the sad blackened eyes in the billboard face exploded with a whiz, a moaning whistle/crack/pop sounding into the blueblack night sky.
"Goddammit, I'll do it myself", muttered Grant, grimly.
The words sounded flatly - strangely sombrely - into the impossible stillness, upsetting, at last, the total silence and quiet which followed the exploding bulbs.
Defeated, again, the uniform hung his head, lowering his arm, and turned towards the patrol car. Various voices blared out.
A crowd of onlookers needed no "move on" reminder.....they were rooted and staring, both startled and disturbed.
The uniform slipped quietly into the driver's seat, backed up the car, and tried to follow the disappearing figure of the large, angry, loping man moving towards any possible dumpster, smoking can, or hissing, personless box, still smoking within the small block radius he had just described, with such accurate acid.
"Fuck me Freddy" said the uniform, throwing the car into gear, and squinting to see where Grant had moved, machine-like, into the evening gloom.
He could never keep up to the fucking guy.
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