Hands above the head
Hands out front
Out to the sides

“He’s so stupid…” I mused. If Chelsea heard me, she didn’t show it. Her eyes remained glued to the oversized comic strip character in front of us. It had been totally silent so far, save for the barely audible psht of his black shoes in the gasoline latent puddle.

He swiftly turned his head to look me in the eye, a visible snarl breaking on his silent lips.

Now it looked like he was trying to impale himself with some nonexistent knife. God, I wish he would. I hate mimes.

“Look! He’s pulling a rope!” gushed Chelsea, giving a dainty little golfer’s clap.

I gawked at the mime through my bangs. “You know he probably gets paid more than either of us?” He snapped his head back in my direction.

“Yes, you. How long did you go to college for this job?” I scoffed.

Cue death glare hot enough to fry an egg. Now, he was to gliding closer to us. When he was so close I could taste the whiskey on his breath, he shrieked:

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