Ribbit

RIBBIT

    The picture on the TV over the bar showed the escapee with a long scraggly beard covering most of his face. The commentator also said there was a large tattoo of a frog on his right forearm.
   
    Paul knew the guy. He'd known him all his life.
   
    According to television and radio reports, the guards at the maximum security prison in Longdale found out the serial killer had escaped sometime during the night. All the local police stations in a three hundred mile radius had been alerted. The citizens of Longdale had been told to keep their doors locked and their children inside. Anybody could be a target for the madman's violence; he'd been convicted six years earlier of kidnapping, torturing, and brutally killing twelve people. His motives were never known, and why he didn't get the death penalty was a mystery and outrage to not just the victim's families, but the country as well.
   
    "So," the bartender said, putting a beer down in front of Paul. "What are you doing in here with that nut on the loose?"
   
    They were the only ones in the bar.
   
    "I knew the guy," Paul said. "He won't come after me."
   
    "What makes you so sure?"
   
    "I just know. What are you doing here?"
   
    "Somebody's got to be serving the beer."
   
    Paul chugged the beer in one long swig, stood up, and started to walk out.
   
    "Hey," yelled the barkeep. "You forgot to pay for that."
   
    "Sorry," Paul said. He went back to the bar and reached into his backpack. "Will this do?" he asked, dropping a large bullfrog on the counter.
   
    "What's this?"
   
    "Ribbit," Paul croaked, scratching his chin.
   
    The barkeep barely saw the knife as it slashed through his jugular.
   
    But he did see the blood.