“I’m not a frog. I’m a crocodile,” says Big Sal.
Phones begin to ease out and point at him.
Henry walks up and pokes Big Sal in the chest.
“I don’t know where you came from, or how you managed to land this job, but you will never be as good as I was! Everyone remembers my floss.”
“Who’s that guy, mommy?” says a little girl, maybe five. Then, cringing away from Big Sal, “And why’s the puppet so real?”
“Ah-HAH! Even she knows you’re just a puppet!” says Henry.
This human smells like that old crocodile suit. Trick. Conflicted. Two scents pulling opposite ways.
Big Sal looks around for a barkeep, but all he sees is Raleigh behind the tall, long table. His back is to the scene unfolding as he checks orders. Petra isn’t anywhere to be seen.
“And where did you get such a suit? What kind of blasphemy is this?” He gestures to the entirety of Big Sal.
The smell coming off him is sweet-ish, but not. Cinnamon buns had a full kind of sweet, held up by spice. This one is hollow, sweet on top, sticky-sharp underneath. It has a shape, too. Pointing right at Big Sal. Trying to…make him feel smaller.
“Wow. Real impressive,” says Henry, poking at his arm. “Good for you. You don’t belong at Hooks. You’re going to fail here in less than a week. Maybe days. Maybe hours!”
Working himself back up, Henry grabs Big Sal’s snout and pries it open, peering in at the rows of teeth.
“Hm. Too realistic. And grody.” He leans back. “Yeah…I can smell…actually, never mind, I don’t want to say it. Not in front of the cameras.”
Then he lifts the croc’s left arm, studies the armpit, and frowns.
Before Big Sal can stop him, Henry climbs up and sits on his head, feeling along his jawline.
“Why does it seem like there are no seams? What are you, welded to this pathetic mimicry of a crocodile suit? Seams fishy,” he says. “Hah.”
“Wait,” says a boy. “Look under his chin.”
Henry scrambles down and looks where the boy is pointing.
“Huh,” he says, leaning close.
The top of a zipper sits against Big Sal’s throat, as if it were melded into the skin.
“Not a real crocodile,” whispers a girl to her little sister. “You’re okay.”
Say what?
If he had hair, it would be prickling. His hand lifts toward his throat, but the proximity band goes off and the speakers bark, “This croc can dance! Watch him floss!”
He tries to do the floss, but his short, thick arms still won’t go behind his back.
“Like I said, pathetic!” says Henry, matching to the stinger as he performs a floss that swings in a wide circle.
Big Sal looks down at this person, two feet shorter than him. It’s almost amusing. It isn’t.
A familiar human scent from the crowd reaches him. He can’t quite place it. Then he can.
It’s the pilot, whose airplane he caught a ride on out of Stinkwater.
Big Sal looks around, trying to see the human, to remember the face, but he doesn’t think he ever saw it. A song starts to play, and it’s not one he’s heard before, but the beat, the rhythm catches him.
And then his body is already moving. He doesn’t understand how, or why, or where it came from. Only that something broken left something open, and the music pours in. Pulls him.
This isn’t about snacks.
Gesturing at the far side of the crowd, he tries to move them away. People look at each other, confused, until he bellows, “Move. Please.”
The crowd parts, and the front doors slide open to the staged front of Hooks.
“Duck,” he says to Henry, who looks confused. Then, “Get down.”
Henry waffles for a moment as Big Sal takes the prosthetic tooth out of his mouth. He winds up. Henry finally ducks.
Big Sal throws it out the front door, runs, and jumps, launching himself out after it.
“Watch out!” says a mom, pulling her kids close.
“Flying crocodile!” says a teenager.
“Don’t lose your hat!” says someone else.
Aiming high, he fans out all four legs and, like an airplane, lifts, twists, and pulls the tooth out of the air, landing in a smooth roll outside of Hooks, on the pavement where he first saw Petra.
He tosses the prosthetic tooth up in the air, catches it behind his head and rolls it down his ribbly back, over his tail and then launches it as high as he can.
“This croc…”
Hands out to one side, his legs move across the pavement to the music, and his tail tips a sunhat off of a woman’s head. It’s not as big as his floppy hat, but does the trick.
“…has got to…”
In a breakdance method that only he could make smooth with his tail, he falls to the ground, tipping the hat up and over to land on his head. It’s a little low and covers his eyes, but he’s good.
He twirls in a stirring motion, then with an exaggerated sniff, he rumbles. “Mmm…make it homey…”
The crowd, though, hears ‘homey’ like ‘bro’, and loses it in a raucous cheer.
“That’s the croc!” yells a little kid from his dad’s shoulders. He tries to do the flying motion Big Sal did, and Dad has to catch him before he falls off.
“No no NO!” yells Henry, trying to storm through. “This croc is—”
“Oh run some floss through your teeth,” says a teenager. “Give it a rest.”
Big Sal grooves to the music, letting it flow through him on that sidewalk in front of Hooks. There’s some mad drops and a few hat twirls. He does a spinning headstand and as he’s beginning to feel the song start to end, a glowing orb soars over the crowd to circle him in a rising spiral.
Petra.
He stalls, the orb knocking him out of his zone for a moment, and he almost fumbles his end. His tail reaches up and out and catches the tooth he threw upwards as it returns to the ground, slides it up to catch it in his hand, and jams it back into his mouth where it had been.
The song ends, and he stands in the middle of the crowd.
Everyone’s looking at him, expecting something.
A swishing sound and the sliding doors close behind everyone. The orb disappears back over the crowd.
“That’s the croc!” yells the kid from his dad’s shoulders again.
“THAT’S THE CROC!” the crowd rumbles.
“Dad, I want crocodile legs,” says the kid.
“Uh, I think they come with ranch sauce. You don’t like ranch,” says his Dad.
“DAD, NO! I wanna be able to fly like him!”
Chuckles from the crowd respond to the kid.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a crocodile,” says a man who looks like he works in construction. He winks at Big Sal and turns towards the entrance.
“Can I get a selfie with you?” says a teenager, approaching Big Sal.
“Uh.”
She leans against him, clicks her camera and whoops. “First post!”
A line forms fast, and Big Sal finds himself making different faces and motions for each one.
Three selfies later, the restaurant’s big outdoor speakers boom, the current selfie goes awry with shock on everyone’s face, even his.
“WELCOME TO HOOKS THEMED RESTAURANT!” says a deep voice. “WHERE THE SHOW GETS FLOSSED EVERY…”
“Whoops,” says Raleigh, walking out with his phone in hand. “Not floss. Not floss. Dammit. I should have changed that years ago.”
“You didn’t change it because I was only on leave,” says Henry, gruffly as he shuffles away.
“Oh go back to The Cinnamon State, you stick-legged rolly poly roll,” says Raleigh. “Enjoy basting yourself in butter.”
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Chapter 20 podcast drops April 18
Chapter 21 text drops April 25
