"A fat girl at the park must overcome her anatidaephobia to escape with her sandwich."
The south end of the park was the safe part. Food trucks crowded the lot just off of Willis Avenue, and with them came their siren's song of smells and sizzles. The south end was also where the pavilion and picnic tables were. She could sit outside in the sun and enjoy her meal. As long as she stayed away from the pond to the north, she'd be fine.
Or so Heidi thought.
Danger was the furthest thing from Heidi's mind as she unwrapped the sandwich in front of her. Far from the stereotype of frenzied feeding that people ascribed to women of her size, Heidi was a slow and deliberate eater. She folded back the wax paper wrapping bit by bit, appreciating the turkey BLT with avocado's fine craftsmanship. Unlike the trampled looking, sad burgers crushed by the wage slaves staffing a fast food restaurant, this was a sandwich beautifully prepared and ready for a food photographer's lens. The lettuce was vibrant green, peeking beyond the perimeter of the aromatic, fresh baked bread. The bacon was superbly...
The downy hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Dread washed over Heidi like a bucket of ice water poured on her head. Her skin erupted in goosebumps. No, no, no- the pond was so far away. They couldn't be here. She forced herself to remember her psychiatrist's words: deep breaths. The first ones she drew were ragged, panicked, but they grew more and more regular. She forced herself to look up from her sandwich and swivel her head around to survey the area.
She expected to be greeted with sinister, glass bead black eyes, leathery bills, scaly webbed feet. She expected feathered flapping and waddling and quacking- the stuff of nightmares. But instead there was... nothing. Odd- this almost supernatural sense had never steered her wrong before. Maybe she *was* crazy.
Heidi turned her attention back to her meal, raising the sandwich to her eager lips. That's when she noticed him. At first it was the fedora that caught her attention. It was the favored headwear of pickup artists, a group she learned to be wary of ever since being trapped in an elevator with one for fifty hellish floors. But there was something about him beyond the hat that bothered her. He lurched bonelessly, the surface of his trench coat roiled with lumps and bumps. Also, he was wearing a paper plate mask with a crudely drawn smiley face and he had wings for hands.
The ducks had found her.