The Final Wave

"Please, Daddy?" 

Jensen - a tall, hefty man of 30 years - looked down at the 10 year old. His expression softened. Gently, he reached down with a hand that seemed monstrous next to the little girl's head - carefully lifting her chin with a curled, thick, index finger. His smile conveyed the love he felt for his daughter. He choked back a tear as memories of her mother came flooding in. She was a spitting image. 

"Please?" she repeated. 

"OK, baby. I'll be back to pick you up at 5:30, then it's dinner, practice, and straight to bed." 

"Thank you, Daddy!" She squealed as she leapt up - kissing him on the cheek. Wasting no time, she snatched up her doll and her bag and ran off to join her friends. 

The doll outstretched its arms to the man as the girl ran. "It's not fair! You know I'm going to regret this!" it snorted. Turning to the little girl's ear it took a more tentative tone - throwing in a shudder for emphasis. "Can't we talk about this?" it asked - and the girl and the doll both broke out in uproarious laughter. 

Jensen - in a rare moment in his life - just smiled. 

Walking back to his car he watched as a group of boys played a game of street basketball nearby. The boys were playing the same as they did every evening after school. 

-=+=- 

Troy executed a pump-fake once, then again. Carelessly slamming into Tyree he turned around and took the shot - a near perfect lay-up. Tyree took to his feet and gave the boy a shove. 

"Yo! You fouled!" 

A sly, smug grin writhed its way across Troy's face. "No blood, no foul ya ape-ass-lookin' sonuvabitch." 

Tyree gave Troy another shove. "Fuck you!" 

Troy sighed. "Eh. Fuck it." Troy threw a blindingly fast right knocking Tyree to the ground and bloodying his nose in the process.  

Troy laughed. "Ah. There is blood. My bad." 

"Fight!" the other boys screamed - cheering them on as the fight took to the ground and the two exchanged blows. Tyree - not one to be beaten - made a desperate reach for a chunk of pavement that had broken off at the edge of the court. Wrapping his fingers around it he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and swung. 

Troy immediately rolled over while grabbing at the wound. "You God-forsaken, mother-fucking son of a bitch!" 

-=+=- 

The woman was hysterical. Grabbing at whatever her tear-filled eyes could lock in on she threw - and threw - and threw. Lyndy struggled to find some semblance of safety on the other side of the bed. 

Reggie had raised his muscular arms into a defensive stance - just in time for a low-flying copy of the "Book of Mormon" to strike home on his well-developed belly. He hadn't even stopped long enough to pull on his boxers. With his new wife in the state she was in - he wasn't going to waste that kind of time. 

"Sara! Sara! Please! This won't help anything! Calm down!" 

Lyndy had wrapped herself in the bed sheets - and ventured a look over the edge of the bed just in time to see Sara deliver a swift kick right where it would count the most. 

"Mom! Stop it!" She screamed - dropping back into hiding. Tears streamed down her face as she heard him hit the floor groaning. The hysterics continued as she kicked the downed man. 

Lyndy's voice was hushed. "You're scaring me." 

-=+=- 

Ian - meanwhile - was with his nephew Marcus. The winds in the park were great that day - and they'd taken a homemade dragon kite for its maiden flight. Marcus - at the ripe-old-age of 6 - sat amazed at the beautiful monstrosity at the end of his string as Ian watched, full of pride.