The Flip-Flop Heist

"I dare you," Chris whispered.

No going back now.

Rory inched his way across the garden like a ninja on a lava field wearing slippers, such was his stealth, agility and quietness.

His quarry lay, snoring in the sun. The prize, a flip-flop, hanging half off the foot of the unsuspecting snoozer.

A trip to the newsagents for a Sherbet Dip was in the offing but it would be touch-and-go if Rory could, literally, pull it off.

Like a pincer, he extended his hand and pulled.

A snort startled him and Chris hissed, "Come on!"

Rory gulped, went in again, little finger hooked and gently, so gently, he lifted it. They were hideous feet. The hard, scaly grey of dried skin distorted the toes and the nails were painted haphazardly, like it had been done with a catapult.

They were knobbly and nasty.

Suddenly, there was a thrum as next door started their mower. Jumping, the spell of the feet broken, Rory pulled, the flip-flop came free and he ran, ran, ran back to Chris to the shouts of "Oy! What are you doing?" from his surprised victim.

"Bloody kids! Come back here! Gimme back my flip-flop, you sods!"

But they didn't as they had a date with a Sherbet Dip.

***

211 words

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