(Click for Sammy, the Gat, catch-up)
“We both know you ain’t gonna snuff me, Belinda,” I say to the bird holdin’ the loaded party favor. “So ditch the widow-maker and gift me the skinny.”
I see the frost melt on her windowpane as she shutters her baby blues, opens her stasher and drops in the banger.
“Big this time, Sammy. Across the pond.”
Right away I’m bristlin’ stop signs. I got my limits, and fifty long ones outside-a town is as far as I mogate.
“Ain’t gonna happen, Belinda.”
“NatSec.” She gives me the wise eye as her syllables boogie onto my dance card.
Belinda Beauvais, a fed?
Sammy, the Gat, a fed?
The noose around my food tube boa-constricts.
(Photo by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Friday Fictioneers, November 09, 2012.)