Running a fine-toothed comb through his beard, Fidel smoothed out the smog knots that clung tightly to his hair. If only he hadn’t visited Beijing. What a terrible waste of a weekend, Fidel thought coldly. He recalled the city’s buildings poking above the clouds like the eyes of a hungry Cayman staring down its prey. Disgusting.
He sat irritated in the newly reupholstered leather chair that tucked beneath the awning of his stately mahogany desk. With a few squeaks he inched the chair closer to feel more at ease in his solitary office. Perhaps that was when tranquility should overcome him, but instead Fidel felt an itch. Stretching across the matted top, he reached a calloused hand for the specialty box of Cuban’s that lingered just beyond his finger tips.
A dense, musky smell taunted him as its phantom scent tickled Fidel’s nose. As the perfume seeped into his nostrils and blanketed his tongue with the heavy taste of unbridled pleasure, his craving intensified and he required immediate access to his cigars. Kicking back his chair, he found it blockaded by a pesky floorboard. He was stuck, imprisoned from gratification. “What luck”, he grumbled.
But, alas! The Yo-Yo from Beijing! Rustling a hand deep into his pocket, Fidel retrieved the meager souvenir. A bright sheen came over the polished wood as Fidel jostled it in the light. His skills were amateur at best, but a proper throw would result in the repossession of his beloved Cubans. Cocking his arm back like a gun hammer and preparing the yo-yo as a bullet, Fidel let off a shot that swung parallel to his desk. The novelty kicked back with a fury, grazing the cigar box and bouncing aloft before squaring Fidel in the jaw. If only he hadn’t visited Beijing.
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