Timmy Timmons Sandlot Romane & Geschichten

I lugged my bike up the three flights of stairs – my neighborhood was far from the safe confines of the skyscraper – and settled into my shared flat. The apartment was rather close quarters, but my roommate, Timothy (never Tim), was a descent sort. Timothy was an exercise-conscious, gay tattoo artist with a good professional reputation and he found my choice in employment amusing. Timothy said I was swimming against the current. I told him salmon did it every year. He countered with salmon don't jump Angel Falls.

MR. NOBODY “Mommy! Noooo!” Laughter echoed through Ellen Danvers’ small kitchen as she knelt and bent her son Timmy backward over her knee. He giggled while she pretended to lose her grip. “Jeez, you’re heavy! What’ve you been eating? Hippos?” His face split into a toothy grin. “N-no! Just p-puppies!” “PUPPIES!” She shook him in mock fury. “That’s it! You’re gonna get it!”

the officer said in a commanding voice. "Yes, officer..." Tim trailed off. "Officer Wilson," the cop replied, sternly. With a sinking feeling, Tim opened the door and got out of the car. He was shivering, even though it was not a particularly cold night. Tim was a slip of a boy, 5-7, 120 pounds, max. Tim was blonde, and barely looked like he had passed through puberty. He was wearing a thin t-shirt, loose straight-legged jeans, and a beat-up pair of Converse AllStars. It all accentuated how pathetically scrawny he was.

“A little boy. Dark hair. Still in his spiderman Jammies? Maybe angry too? Walking willingly to his doom?” "Oh, trust me," Timmy chuckled, his voice faintly echoing in the big hall. "A boy in Spiderman jammies would be hard to miss." He winked. I had no clue what was so funny about wearing spiderman jammies. But maybe I was too freaked out to understand or appreciate his sense of humour. All I could see or sense right now was his staggering assholeness that I didn't have time for. When I did nothing but stared up at him with pure frustration, he lifted his hands in defeat.