The day was at its peak temperatures, and I was there, at my PC, frantically working away to meet my client's goals. I had to make a good first impression on my boss, after all, I needed a good amount of money to move my family out of the two bedroom flat. The neighborhood was alright; a bit conservative, but nevertheless very accommodating. There weren't too many shops nearby, however I could not complain - the price for the house was no less than a steal. As such, the weekly food truck was a saving grace. Wednesday was the Ice Cream Truck day, and I was already salivating at the thought of the cool scoop, and I had good reason to- 38 degrees Celsius was not something you could simply ignore.
"Jimmy! The truck's here! Wanna go grab some ice cream?"
"Coming, dad!"
My wife asked for a single scoop of vanilla with chocolate sprinkles. As Jimmy and I left the house and started crossing the street, I heard something - something that wasn't the bell of the ice cream truck. I heard doors and windows slamming. Residents were peculiarly looking at me as if I had just robbed a bank.
"Dad, why are they shutting the doors?"
"Ah, it's nothing son. They don't want their children to waste time on ice cream. People are quite old-fashioned here."
I knew it wasn't the real reason, but what else could you tell a ten year old? I decided I'd have a chat with the owner of the truck. The fellow looked quite amiable. Rather starved and sickly-looking, but character bypasses looks.
"Heyo! Haven't seen you guys around here."
"Yep, we're new to the neighborhood. Jim, why don't you go inside the truck and take a look at what flavor you want, while I and ..."
"Kyle."
"... Kyle have a little chat?"
He gave a small nod, and happily ran into the truck.
"My name's Christopher. Nice to meet you. What’s with all the people running back into their houses?”
“To be honest, my guess is as good as yours. I’ve had this job for over a year now, and the customers decrease with every passing day. The previous truck owner possibly did something. I heard he was some sort of a sociopath, but it’s all fluff if you ask me. When I took over, the kids cowered in fear of the truck. It’s almost as if the truck’s haunted or something.”
“Huh. I’m sorry for how you’re being treated. You just seem like a nice guy.”
He inched closer to me. I noticed minor scars on his face. His breath reminded me of a pig sty, and my instincts asked me to back off. He grabbed my shoulder.
“Oh, are you sure you feel sorry for me? I don’t feel sorry for myself...”
He reached into his left pocket and brought out a knife, and with force comparable to that of a raging bull, thrust it into my abdomen. My mind was in shock; far too lost to comprehend the situation. As I felt the knife twist inside me, my blood had already started to pour on to the sidewalk. I wanted to call out to Jim, but a squeak and blood was all that came out of my mouth. He slowly removed his knife, and licked the edge of his knife – and seemed to enjoy every bit of it.
“…because there was no previous truck owner.”
He grinned, and as I fell to my knees I saw him walk to the truck and drive off. All I could do at that point was lay down, and hope someone would rush over to me. Seconds felt like minutes as I experienced life ooze out of me.
But I wasn't done with life. Not yet.