Round Robin

Ron Koppelberger

Round Robin

Belonging to the mix of entertainment, women and cheep cologne was a satisfying wrinkle in the web of tense embryonic existence. He caused the fray, cured the commotion and assured the gaggle of drama. A sure secret, a mystery of import and tempered rumor gone round robin. In a turn to return, a will to passing whimsy, just a whisper to the giggling mistress of screams and guffaws, laughter and flittering evanescent communication; just a whisper in a room full of parishioners. He leaned toward the raven haired beauty; she smelled of lilacs and wine as her gold and diamond earrings danced in delicate circles of light, prismic and casting tiny spears of candent white light against her slender neck. Just a whisper to come along, round robin, round robin.
Her smile faded as he whispered in gentle coquette,” There’s a fire in the loft love, a fire in the loft.” He watched as she struggled to identify the whispering source of her fear. He watched as she grimaced, teeth bared in fright,
“YYYYYIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE”, she screamed through clenched teeth. “FFFiiiiiiirrrrreeeeeeeee.” her face contorted into creased lessons of fright and her expression became a contagious rhythm of flowing fear. The room shifted and the crowd churned to the front door, Screaming surges trampling, crushing in waves of patent leather and stiletto heels, in waves of bloody stomped silk, stumbling ails and tuxedo stain. They surged and pressed and the demon smiled in distracted interest as the broken bloody bodies of a dozen lay heaped near the door. “Round robin, round robin,” he hissed in sibilant appreciation.