“For the last time I do not think this is a good idea.” Rick rubbed his thickly padded hands together, cocked his head slightly to the right, and pulled his goggles into place.
“I’m gonna be fine.” Stan said as energy rushed through his body, making him jittery with excitement.
“You could have at least worn boxers or something.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“I swear to God when this fails, and you come out of there covered in third degree burns I ain’t gonna be sorry.”
The fire truck rounded the corner and both men looked at the oncoming blaze. A gothic style mansion stood before them. It’s exquisite five arched façade stood firm against a billowing cloud of smoke that had broken though a high window on the east wing. The cloud hovered over the proud building as its counter part gutted the fleshly wooden interior.
Suddenly, with a snap and crackle of faltering wood, one of the four corner spires gave way and plummeted into a burning oak on the front lawn. As much as it fought it, the building was dying.
“Let’s move!” Lance the fire chief shouted as he jumped off the truck and quickly began pulling a hose.
“You heard the man.” Stan said as he stepped off the end of the truck. As his bare feet fell into the wide blades of the properly groomed St. Augustine grass time seemed to slow for him. Stan pulled his arms out of his heavy yellow jacket and let it slip off his shoulders onto the grass. As he stood there naked the warmth from the blaze before him hit his bare face and chest in slow and steady waves. The men around him were shouting, but Stan could not hear them. All that there was, was the building, the fire, the grass, and him. For a moment he stood on the edge of fate. Then from within the walls he heard a muffled cry.
Time roared back to full speed as Stan stepped into the flames.