Fresh Sentinal

Fresh Sentinel

Ron Koppelberger

Chains and the symptom of stampedes remained as part of the lower histrionics. Fast Dipper was timeless in his precarious, mostly hostile gild. He enthralled the convention with his characteristic appearance, scotch pedigree and all that came in the package, he was fastidious yet accommodating in his primitive ease.
The frenzy in the convention lobby was a dilemma he bypassed for the concession stand near the front entrance. Addiction, he was addicted to the cool sugars of theaters and manna, his manna was soda pop. He was the expectant compulsion in the arena and he shamed the mass with his fervent pause as he drank in the cold air, the noise, the commotion and the soda pop.
“Jumbo Please!” he said to the pimpled teenager behind the counter. The teenager grinned and appraised him for a moment. Fast smiled back and licked his parched lips. An understanding occurred in that moment of anticipation, the moment before the fresh drink. He was the sentinel of what spectacle forgave, he was the backward glance in the shoving contest, the door swinging shut before the fire……a sentinel standing before the race, the order before the first and he incurred the hesitant knowledge of what would be and what was insane. He whispered to himself as the soda rolled into the waxy cup, “Birth and undeniable danger, coiling vipers and bad omens begone, trial and cold sugars be the rumor in magic faith……..to the show, to the show!” The soda moved across the stained wooden station and Fast looked at the frenzy for a moment before deciding at the last moment to leave the auditorium. Looking back on it he realized the bomb had been a fluke, a freak in the mix of soda and sentinels in transit. He looked past the pile of rubble that was the auditorium and sighed. Trusting the fates he moved toward another day after that in tide and the edge of August adversity.