“Enjoyin’ Maine so fah?” the driver asked Emmi, unloading her suitcase from the truck.
Emmi scratched a welt on her hand. “Your bugs are … lively.”
“Ayup. Mahskitos. State bird, dontchaknow.” He yanked a 12-gauge from the rack. “Duck, miss.”
An insect the size of cat swooped over the hotel — and disintegrated in the blast. “Don’t fret,” said the driver, a mad glint in his eye. “‘Twas but a babe.”
Emmi’s eyes were saucers.
“Alas,” he said, reloading and donning an Army helmet, “when ya do fah the babe, Mama comes next.”
Emmi glanced over her shoulder.
The sky darkened.
Day 9 of 31: 100-word Drabbles.
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