Jerome drove his Volvo closer to the piers, in an effort to find inexpensive parking. He knew he could carry his son the 8 blocks or so to the ballpark and didn’t feel like battling the traffic and lot prices. The sun was setting to his left as he pulled up to a deserted traffic signal, he put on his right blinker and turned up NPR a bit to catch the last moments of As It Happens. Toby was fondling one of his Thomas the Tank Engine toys and he vaguely wondered about the recall for lead paint he had heard about on the radio earlier. As he began to reach into the pop up console to make a note on his blackberry a hand reached through the open window and grabbed his throat, fingers digging in deep to his windpipe. Fighting to stay conscious Jerome instinctively grabbed at the arm connected to the hand, but before he knew it his body was ripped from the car, his throat leading the way, and slammed onto the pavement. As the claw on his throat loosened he drew in a sharp breath and tried to stagger to his feet, too late he realized a form with a boot attached to it connecting with his stomach. Another blow to the face and he rolled sideways, forcing his legs to bend and support his weight in an effort to stand. It was too late, through tears and pain he watched his car speed through the red light and off down the deserted road. He began to run , blood streaming from his ear and nose, his cheek a hamburger mash of flesh and muscle; His screaming voice bouncing off of the vacant building and slowly disappearing over the water. The volvo was later found 30 miles outside town, the car seat and the gas tank both empty.
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