The Reckless Wolf

Ron Koppelberger

The Reckless Wolf

An honest importance, an intimate arrangement with the rubber mask. He tasted the bitter gambol in divisions of smokey breath and the chemical powder that coated the interior surface of the mask. A taste of alum, the mask was a graceful projection of werewolf fear, fangs and yellow eyes.
He followed the corridor to the back ally in tense rendezvous with fate, he pulled the convenience store door open, it read employees only. The flow of events became a kaleidoscope of screams and inhalations that galleries of everyday circumstance defined as intense.
He pointed the gun at the clerk and gamboled a grunt, “Empty the register!” he threw a black silk bag seamed by thick string at the clerk. Unforced, native sunshine defined the countenance of a smiling middle aged woman; suddenly her smile faltered and she screamed and spit in terror. Homespun glory filled his mind and he found creation, god in that moment. The woman screamed and the door clanged as a gulping ghost in white flew through the door. Wrenching the bag from the grasping clutch of the clerk he ran, exalting the spirit of the mask. He ran and sang the rhapsody of a newly proclaimed spirit in secret. Again, he ran.
The fortune of gilded dreams and absurd intuition arranged a rent in the rift of time. A warp in the conflict, discernable by the rare care of fate. Vaulting through the metal door he found his way whooping, “YEEEEEHHHHAAAAAWWWW!” as he ran into the back ally. The sanity of passage and the secret, the wolf in silhouette, the image of blaring sirens, enigmas and signs of happenstance, all told him to soar, to run wild in free spirit, in search of the day.
He saw the man at the mouth of the ally and in a rush he nearly tripped over him. Manners of fast faith argued the fate of destiny intertwined as he threw off the mask and ran into the brawny arms of a police officer.
The wolf mask lay near the man in the shadows. He grinned and moved forward to Vista Rose, the cemetery that used his care. Concealed in the palm of his hand, a sprig of wheat as pure as the shining sun. He would visit the graveyard in the thrall of hope. He prayed for a miracle as he donned the rubber wolf mask and moved forward again, to the limits of life, to the limits of freedom and the day that the lines of fate would converge to form the bond…..between man and the soul of a wolf……he thought, the police and the robber, were they told in a breath or was the sprig of wheat the answer to the mystery.