Mr. Jack Is The Candlestick

Arther Jack is burning out; the flames are jumping right out his fingers. He’s breathing deep and feeling amazing. I think he had some issues he need to exorcise and some pyrokinetic abilities latent. I’m in the mob stuck in the spectacle of a man shooting fire from his hands. The alley is pretty much full and the firefighters can’t get through. Downtown is aghast, agog and completely baffled.

Arther, 27 years young and an assistant manager at your local pizzeria, is a man waiting for greatness. I’m the girl at his side, although I’ve been having misgivings about that. Mr. Jack as he’s called by his underlings is a man that receives abuse well. I know this because I’ve given more than my share. He’s always just holding it in. Every insult, every offense, every terrible thing, he holds, building up a mountain. This is what happens when you force a mountain out your fingers.

Now, misgivings have been set aside as I realize that my boyfriend is spitting in the face of all known medical science. I’m sure you can’t break these laws forever. He will come down to a more reasonable temperature soon but my little firefly might just die. The firefighters need to get here now.

Speak of the Devil, and he busts his way through a crowd apparently. There all around him now in dirty beaten yellow coats with glow in the dark stripes. Ten men are spraying fire extinguishers but my boy is holding out, he’s always been stubborn like that. Finally, he relents and we’re left with a legend and a little man who did something impossible.

“Sorry, I had to get that out of my system.”

Secretly, I hope he has more.

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