Each day this month I’ll be posting an Alliterative Story with the A to Z Challenge letter of the day. I’ll also be posting a few Alliterative stories or sensible poems by other authors from a separate free challenge I hosted HERE You can join in the fun by watching for the challenge authors and voting in comments for your favorites! (Hint, there’s a new one today in a separate post.) Winner announced at the end of April.
Salvador Simpson, the sneaky sleuth, stepped into Sonny’s Seaside Speakeasy to spy on suspicious spectacles secretly spilled to Salvador by Sara Silverheels, a sexy server in the Scallops Section seriously sickened by such sketchiness and skullduggery. Sara said a spectrum of strangers of all stripes were skulking in, swiftly swigging swill, and surreptitiously slipping string-tied somethings to super slick somebodies in suits, seeming somewhat like scamming senators.
Salvador had been scintillated and slung his sensational solar stainless-steel swindler-scryer into his Silverado and sped to the scene to scout out the scheme.
A soda-jerk, Sammy, that stupidly supposed himself a suave sommelier, schmoozed Salvador when the snoop slid into the squishy sectional that simulated a swanky suite but severely sucked. Salvador succinctly skipped to Saturday Specials. “Spaghetti and Steak Siciliana,” he specified, seeking to subdue the sap so he could seep into silently soaking in surveillance. Starving, he also selected the salmon soup with sourdough and a simple salad. Sammy sashayed away.
Salvador salivated and sunk into the seat. He situated his scry-ceiver and with stupendous sagacity subtly scanned the surroundings for scamps. A sorry-looking, slob slogged in with a salesman’s suitcase and strode strenuously to a stool. But the sad specimen slouched in solitude sipping sake’, soon snoring and staving off scrutiny. Another soul slumped slamming Stoli and sobbing to his sympathetic sister. Salvador surmised the sot and sibling were spotless.
Sammy slipped-up and sent sour slaw not spring sprigs and spinach, but Salvador squelched squeaking to sidestep a stir. He slurped subpar stove-hot, scalding salty seafood and savored steaming spicy salami and sausage sauce until satiated. He surrendered to his setup but spoke to a scrawny, spunky sailor in scarlet sabots swishing by. “Say, is your sailboat seaworthy?”
The stunned subject with a sextant stamped on his silky sleeve searched for sense, surprised. “’Scuse me?” He smiled suggestively at Salvador and sized-up his sinews.
“Is your sloop solvent?” Salvador steadily sung out with a semblance of stalwart stability.
The swabby’s swagger swerved and he stared at Salvador sidelong. “Sometimes,” he submitted, sounding stilted.
Salvador saw a sanguine spirit and saluted the seadog, who sauntered off satisfied.
A socialite, sporting sunglasses, with swept strawberry-blonde side-knots stuffed with sparkly Swarovski sunflowers sticking to her scalp, serenely settled in the Snapper Section but squawked for soba sauté and Sangria with a straw to safeguard her Sephora satin-finish surface. Her straight-up striving and substantial Spade Staci satchel struck through Salvador’s solace. He stood and sidled to her side.
“Salutations,” Salvador screamed over soaring sentimental saxophone strains smoldering from the solidly seismic Swedish stereo system.
“Sylvia,” she said. Her sight snapped to his solicitation but with a snippy snub sought sites of superior status.
He slithered into her space like a slimy, smarmy snake. The scent of sandalwood swelled from her sensually slit sari till Salvador’s senses swam. She sustained a sultry, yet sneering snobbish stance, in sync with the syncopation. So Salvador squashed the serpentine slink and stomped off and stoked a stodgy stogie stub, studying her straying synergy with the saccharine, syrupy songs.
A swarthy, stylish stud in striking sable suede slip-ons, starry-eyed and sweet-faced as Saint Solanus, strutted in for a Sanka and squab sandwich. His sacred Sony smartphone spotlighted the Spanish stockmarket.
A sloppy, sallow scar-faced stooge staggered in after him, but Salvador wasn’t sold on this staged spoof. With a savvy squint, he summed up sergeant-type single-mindedness and a sinister Stalin-like slant that the sluggish, smudge smooshed. Stalin snugged a Sig Spartan sagging in his slovenly slacks. Sniper or savior?
Salvador smelled a sting. He swayed to suspecting St. Solanus and Sylvia, and scribbled on scraps, spellbound by the synergy of the sordid skank and sacrilegious skunk, separated but somehow symbiotic.
Suddenly, Solanus stroked his Swiss Swatch as if stringently stressing a second’s strike, swallowed by strident symphonic syllables surging from the speakers. Sylvia, in a streaming swarm of spice, sensuously strolled to Solanus and swapped a scarab-studded sack for a sash-swaddled sachet. This Solanus was no saint, and Sylvia sinfully skirted salvation.
Stalin started to sally forth and Salvador sacrificed his stolid, standoffish science to sarcastically screech, “Sargent! I seldom see your snarky self.” He scooted over and slapped the ‘soldier’. “Watch your six, sir.” Stalin spun and set his sites on a small slaphappy, soused sidekick scrabbling for his Smith & Wesson while scrambling to stop the strife of the spendy spawn. They squared at a stand-off.
Salvador sprinted across the saloon and stabbed a stack of spare stores scattering them to salvage the situation by sending the scoundrels sprawling on a swath of scone scree and swampy secretion of spackle, solvents, stinky soap and snowy seabass slush, splitting the stalemate, and spoiling the sparring.
The skinny sop snorted and sobered. With a stumbling stunt he stooped and swung too slow to sock successfully. Stalin smacked the silly son-of-a-bitch seven spanks to sideways and severed his sanity, sinking him splat! onto the sanitation sludge, seething and saturated with sterile stench, slathered with sleet and salve – stunted. Stalin surrounded his scruff in a soft stranglehold for a spell until the scab stayed stationary, sullen and sulking for the slammer.
In Stalin’s slipstream, Salvador stormed in and strong-armed Solanus with sufficient starch to staunch his struggle. Solanus swore a streak of sardonic slang with scant score, then spewed spoon-fed slag, stalling.
Salvador spat. He sparked a spliff stolen from Solanus’ squandered symbol-clad stoner stash and simulated singeing away his slobbering sass. Then snatched silverware from a slab-like sill and slashed the soles of Solanus’ singular slides with a scowl, scaring the scumbag. “Switch to a significant story. Your smart solution, son.”
Solanus squirmed and stammered about strata, statistics, startups, stocks and societal structures. The scarfed sovereign sow, Sylvia, scolded and schooled him, with stark static, like a simpleton student – a sanctimonious simile – spurning his sell-out for survival in her stead. He sighed sorrowfully, her submissive yet stingy speck of a slave.
She sprung, but Salvador straddled her and spliced a splint to seize her scampering. Stranded, she sorely sat up and signed a sheet sorting her salient statement, and sanctioning Salvador to sequester her to the station’s solitary segment for a semester under sentries.
Sylvia’s sentient source suffered similar sentence, while the squealer Solanus skated and went stag. The spectacular solivagant, safaried on savannahs, summited the Sierras solo, and skied the Sella Ronda. Sponging off slim senoritas, he smooched at splashy salon soirées and surfed and sunned, spooning sumptuous sparkling sorbet sundaes on the sand in San Sebastian.
Sonny’s Seaside Speakeasy’s seediness solved.
by Sheri J. Kennedy, All Rights Reserved