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October 23, 2002 conflicted mannequin Elliot Longstreet drove past a downtown storefront window and glanced in it as he slowed to a stop at the traffic signal.  Hanging on a female dummy was a man's business suit.  A man's suit for business, provided, of course, his business was pimping.  Hard plastic tits strained against wide polyester lapels.  Elliot stared at the conflicted mannequin as he punched buttons on a seldom used, antiquated cell phone.  He called her home number in Arlington, Virginia. "Hello." "Elaine, is that you?  You sound funny... like you're in pain or something." "I am in pain, you moron.  These Kevlar bra and panties you sent me are too small.  I've had a baby, remember?" "Of course I remember.  That's why I overnighted them to you.  I didn't want our son becoming a motherless child because some lunatic sniper is on the loose." "He's not our son, Elliot.  He's my son.  You and I never had sex.  Jack is my husband's son.  How many times do I gotta tell you?  He's not your son!" "You're sure about that?"  The cell phone crackled with static.  "I could have sworn we had sexual intercourse." "Believe me.  We didn't.  We barely had verbal intercourse.  You were always too drunk.  How's that going anyway?  Still sober?" Someone blew a horn.  Elliot looked away from the store window and accelerated through the green light. "Yeah.  Still sober.  Sober as a conflicted mannequin." "What'd you say?  We're breaking up.  A con man what?" "Nothing, sweetheart.  Just keep our son safe from harm." Then the signal died.

©  2002 by the beastmaster