The dance rehearsal was interrupted mid-Tango when a crazed delivery man wearing a tan uniform burst out of the rear room, carrying an awkward bundle. He raced toward the door, followed by a middle-aged woman with a tape-measure strung around her neck like an anorexic scarf. “Top! Top!” she yelled. Her lips were pressed together, holding straight pins. They dangled from her mouth, just as a PI’s half-smoked cigarettes dangle from his mouth as he gabs on the phone, feet propped up on the desk.
I instantly sprang into action, shouting, “Call the police!” as I two-stepped it out the door. Out on the street I looked left, then right, and spotted the man in tan slamming the door on a double-parked delivery van. The chase was on. I leaped onto the rear bumper and grabbed the door handles. As the truck veered into traffic, I swung myself up to the roof, limber as a cat. “Being a dancer has unexpected advantages,” I thought, and I flattened myself against the warm metal. The truck lumbered along, the driver unaware of me, a debonair stowaway.
I inched my way forward, up to the cab. I swung my feet into the open passenger window and gracefully descended into the seat. I found myself face-to-face with the startled thief. “Wanna rumba?” I growled as I forced him off the road and up an embankment. A squad car pulled up, lights flashing, and officers pulled the man in tan from the van to question him.
A reporter arrived soon after, and I flashed her a smile as I revealed my prize–the costume designer’s coveted sewing machine. Why the man in tan wanted it, I could not say.
“And you are?” the reporter asked.
“I’m Stan.” I replied.
Tell us a Tall Tale of your own and link it up here or at Second Blooming. Anything goes this week on the Spin Cycle! Stop by on Monday to see what next week’s Spin Cycle prompt will be.
