William “Billy” Kidd was a keynote speaker at the real estate convention. His reputation as a bully preceded him, and several past associates planned to give him a little pay back for his prior actions. Just as the lights dimmed, and Billy walked to the lectern, five of his old associates took seats in the auditorium’s front row.
Billy began his address, all happy and animated. What he never suspected was that the five people in the front row knew about his phobia about pickles. Billy hated sour pickles. On one occasion, during a company outing, he got violently ill just watching somebody suck the juice from a mini-green-sour cucumber-torpedo.
Hal-way through his talk, Billy figured he had his audience in the palm o his hand. And that’s when the furious five withdrew a sour pickle from a large-sized baggie they’d each carried in, and held it to their lips.
All color drained rom Billy’s face and his body sagged a little at the knees. His vision hopped from left to right, pickle to pickle, and wetness in the corners o his eyes reelected the bright lights overhead. A gentleman in the front row, with a sour pickle of enormous proportions, held it up, slowly licked his lips, and with a crackling crunch, bit off one end and began to chew.
Drool dripped from a corner of Billy’s mouth, and he gripped an edge of his lectern with his left hand while removing a handkerchief from a pocket with his right. His voice dropped in volume and he slurred his words. “We can’t here you back here.” Someone shouted from the rear of the audience.
The fellow with the big pickle held it up well over his head, gave it a firm squeeze, and a stream of sour pickle juice drained into his mouth. Billy’s right knee sagged to the stage and the lectern followed the rest of his descent to the floor. A lady in the fourth row cut loose a scream loud enough to make a pigeon pee, and somebody turned the house lights full up.
(From a work in progress)