Hunting Love

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“Hello?”

I hear the tremble, sigh, invite the guy in. Shame; I was enjoyin’ the rain.

“I need your –”

“‘Course ya do. What is it?”

“My daughter.” I sigh again, pull a pad, urge him to continue. “She was taken, from my farm. I had to –”

“She wouldn’t have left herself?” I have no patience for jabber. Downcast, the man shakes his head.

Women.

Welcome to the New World, forced upon us like a hooker on a drunk. Not that anyone was responsible for most ‘the world’s populace dyin’, the mass pollution, or panicked warfare over dwindlin’ resources, ya understand. But someone, in their stupor, invited the wench in; no sooner was she lain down than she turned out the light.

These are dark times, make no mistake. And in times like these, in a job like mine, ya can’t be afraid of the dark.

“She’s cared for me since her ma –”

“Right,” I interrupt. Not like I don’t care — he’s hurtin’, I get it — who’s not? But I’m an artist — I need detail, not background.

A photo, “Adriana,” that’s rare. Pretty. Long blonde hair, slim, blue eyes. A smile. All else is they may have travelled West. Like an outhouse in a hurricane — not a lot to go on.

Barter’s just a fact of life, but as he talks money I sigh relief. Then nearly choke as he offers me his daughter’s hand! “Look fella, I ain’t the marryin’ type,” but he insists. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a pleasant looker, and I ain’t so fool as to think man can live without love. But mine?

He’s broke and he knows it; were she Charity, I still wouldn’t work for free. Spyin’ his watch I point, more than worth the cost, yet not willin’ to part one bit. “It was my Grandpa’s.”

“Who d’ya cherish more, the livin’ or the dead?”

***

The road out West’s a dangerous one; old man was right, no place for a woman to run. But that’s anarchy for ya, completely free. Free like beer; men are all piss, the women water; true beer is rare. All the more reason for keepin’ a level head in this game. Mark my words, women are a noose; I’ve seen too many a man entangled in their snare.

I arrange meetin’ a friend, an information broker, at a diner along the way. I sit, order a drink, but he’s a no show. So eyes wander, as they do, till fixin’ on some broad.

open all night

Stopped in her course, names exchange, other words beside, till the owner stirs, served a faceful of his own words. The fella stands, met by a glare, face to chest as the drunk’s friends join him. Me? I sigh; hardly the discrete drink planned. And at six to one the broad’s odds weren’t lookin’ as hot. I rise, right myself, walk over to make an introduction. Offerin’ his hand I take it, cease its travel through the air. “Now that’s no way to treat a –” I take a smack to the mouth.

We tango, she and I, back to back as though we’ve danced this way for years. Fists and feet a jumble, I protect her, blockin’ punch and kick aplenty. A couple to my gut, my eyebrow split, but I give better than I receive. They soon run, limpin’ and cursin’ as they go. Turnin’ to see them leave, I see her, realise she was protectin’ my back all along.

She’s not a scratch, wincin’ myself, sharp pain and blood as I wipe my brow. Asian, full jawed, a bob of black with a streak of grey within. A scar runs down the far side of her face, and I realise that she can handle herself.

I feel somethin’ for all her imperfections then. She was beer.

Heat and pain mix, a well aimed slap across my face. “Why? I could cope.”

I nod; “didn’t think ya should have to.”

Softenin’ her scowl, we talk, exchange names, other pleasantries. When she says she has to, she leaves. I wait a moment, think toward the door, then run, hopin’ to catch where she’s headed. There in a coach, just headin’ away, I see a blond starin’ straight back at me.

Her.

Knotted in frustration I throw my hat to the ground.

***

I left more questions than answers. Sure, I knew where she was headed — the coach told me that. But the old man lied; her eye’s were brown. It was her, no doubt, but why the photo didn’t match was puzzlin’. How did I know it was her for sure?

Destination reached I gather some information of my own. “An old warehouse on the outskirts,” I’m told, kind of place to give ya the creeps, so I ready my pistol and walk inside.

The door creaks.

I walk as quietly as the buildin’ allows, followin’ trails left in dirt and dust, gun ready as I climb higher. Why the caution? Max, my information buddy, knew somethin’, that’s why we had to meet. But he needed a leak, and did so, across three stalls courtesy of a new windpipe.

I find her, knife held to her throat, broad behind. My heart skips.

“Don’t come any closer.” I try lookin’ harmless.

The girl struggles, “Let go!”

But instead the broad just smiles. “Might have been brief, but I hope you know how I truly feel about you. We really could have been something.”

“Don’t do this; stop it!”

“Well?” She stiffens, as if to strike.

There’s silence as I pull the trigger; that moment my heart sinks, chamber yet to fire. The explosion shatters my wall of thoughts, tearin’ past to her forehead, and on right through.

There’s a scream as glass shatters from the pane behind, shocked sobs, percussion of a body as it flumps to the ground. The broad lies there, bleedin’ out like she did Max.

Were I able to pursue her differently; but not today.

I love the money too much.

Written for the Flash Fiction Challenge: Smashing Sub Genres at Chuck Wendig‘s site, Terrible Minds. The challenge: 1,000 words using two randomly selected genres. My story is 999 words and used post-apocalyptic and noir.

Swords and Clubs

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There was once a painter by the name of Antonio Espino, who toured the land to sell his wares.

And he came to the house of a rich man who, enchanted by his work, gave him a place to stay. The man — an eccentric, a Lord — delighted in the artist, and treated him as his own. In return all he sought was commissions for which he would richly reward, so Antonio obliged. The last such commission was Antonio’s greatest of all, and he would toil long into the night, barely seen except to feed. And once the painting was complete, he presented it to the Lord.

The portrait, of a feline dressed in clothes, bore a pair of playing cards displayed — the club’s ace one, spade the other — just as the Lord had demanded. (For his son loved to gamble.) “Magnificent!” exclaimed the Lord, “your finest creation, truly!” And the Lord celebrated, calling for a feast, portrait placed proud within his banqueting hall.

But tragedy struck before ever the feast — the Lord suddenly died. Though even whilst the artist mourned, his heir demanded he should leave. Antonio protested, seeking only that which he was due. But the son remained unflinching. “What curse have you brought upon my house, that when you paint this thing my father dies?”

His words the artist scorned. “I detect an artist’s hand in this, yet a hand not my own. Pay me what you owe me now, or you’ll reap as you have sewn.”

Refusals still unceasing, Antonio was ejected into the rain; thus, despite false accusal, what was vacant the artist placed.

“Let your heart be hardened as it is so now, unbreakable like stone, that when you dig your pit you dig too deep, yet the digging is your own. May you suffer as I suffer, may you lose all you have won, though no curse I bring can touch thee now, for he loved thee as a son.”

They beat him till he stood no more, he dragged himself away; left a pauper — no tools, no worth, no honour. He begged enough to buy a rope, hung himself from off a tree, all within the manor’s sight so the Lord, and all, could see. There it was they buried him, underneath the gnarled oak; fitting, thought the Lord, he could see the tree and gloat.

But time passed, as did the Lord, content the curse had not prevailed. As too did the tale, carried only on the tongues of old crones, feared more than they were respected.

New lords rose and fell, until another took his place. Same love to gamble, forefather adored, banquet hall converted to a game room, his commission still upon the wall.

Aces Up

Known for entertaining, the Lord called a feast in honour of his forebear, with Roulette, and Billiards, and Blackjack. But the Lord’s poison was for Poker, so later that night he sat and played. The Lord expected favour, for the croupiers were his own, in confidence his hand he played, but in losing he did frown. Another loss, then a win, though small, he continued content his luck would change.

Confidence gave way to frustration, spurring the Lord further on. In silence the croupier was altered, then again as he lost yet more; but nothing would improve his chances, his destiny set in stone. First advisers, then friends, then staff, then adversaries; all suggested he should end, but their voices were lost within the game, convinced that he would win.

None gleaned why the Lord, he lost so much, least of all the Lord. The portrait cat sneakily gestured at everyone. The Lord, he lost once more. Then patience snapped like sinew torn; he demanded them to leave. But at guest’s demands for what he owed, he asked for a reprieve.

Disgruntled, pushed by force, the guests left, to the relief of the Lord. But the guests soon returned, with club and with sword, to drag him screaming from his home. Despite fevered pleas for clemency, his voice was lost within the crowd’s, voice held by a cord, cord held by an oak, voice suspended from a tree. To the manor the crowd returned, marching on it to claim their dues.

The doors they found were open, posts abandoned, servants fled with fear. Quickly they mobilised throughout the manor, room by room, a search for spoils was made. Till a voice called out urgently from within the game room, attention drawn to the portrait on the wall. Within its grasp, the cat there held a pair of tarot cards displayed — the hanged man one, death the other.

The crowd grew quite dismayed.

For in whispered murmurs all remembered, the cat had bore the Lord’s cards, and win or lose all knew the Lord’s draw. Then other murmurs followed, of an artist’s curse long forgot. Antonio’s revenge had been enacted.

Horrified, their spoils they dropped, retreating for the doors. With torches they set the place ablaze. The fires burned through night, till morning, and eve again, until the house it lay in waste, all ruins made.

And the cat, still smiling, descended within the flames.

Written for the Flash Fiction Challenge: Five Random Sentences at Chuck Wendig‘s site, Terrible Minds. The challenge: 1,000 words using one of five sentences. My story is 858 words and used “The portrait cat sneakily gestured at everyone.”

Those Shoes Are Not Apocalypse Friendly, Francine

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“So, to recap, the world ended.”

“Coal was bad; gas was ‘great’, but then it’s really liquid coal; other burnables existed, but ultimately emissions became a big no-no. Nuclear? A no-go zone. Hydro required either flooding or shoreline, wind was ‘offensive to the eye’, and solar? Well, it just needed too much room.”

Puzzled, the boy asked her about the breeze. Wet finger dragged across his face, he retracted, attempted wiping the mark clean. “Invisible the wind might be, but what it catches isn’t so. Mighty mills they set up, with turbines, the wind turning them like drills.” With sweeping hands she conjured visions; with her mouth she conjured sounds.

“But geothermal,” she returned to hug the boy; “that was something everyone could get behind.”

“And behind is fine; but all around, pulling all directions? That’s just messy. People became greedy, racing ever lower for ever higher esteem. Till someone popped the cork; till the Earth began to spew.” Air braking to the boy’s mocking rasp, laughter broke also, tinged with silence at its fade as she chose to appreciate the moment.

“And boy did it vomit, chunks and all. The clouds, the glow of fires; they said you could see for miles around. The sound also; not for tens, nor hundreds, but thousands.”

“Don’t you remember, Frana?” The boy looked to her.

Her head wagged. “I was only little; younger then than you. But I remember the fear, the uncertainty of it all.”

“The world would burn up, they said; we’d die of the heat, as eruptions continued and the sky turned grey. But as the lights went out–began to fail, the energy run dry–all turned quickly cold. An ice age like no other; no power, no sun, no core.” Calloused fingers felt their way through loose soil beneath, cold to the touch.

“The earth bled out like a goat; the earth bled out and died, taking with her as many as she could.”

In a void of silence she was prompted by the boy. “Then what?”

“That’s it, the lesson is ended; there is no more.”

“Aww.” Complained the boy even whilst squeezed briefly in her arms. “But how did you survive?”

“Same as anyone: luck. We were on holiday; when planes were grounded, we were stuck. When the freeze occurred we were the right side of it, and we avoided the earthquakes.”

“Planes? The metal birds that used to carry people?”

Confirming his answer, the child excited at the revelation; she had not only seen one, but been on one also. Head kissed, hair ruffled, she stood, a backpack’s weight dragged across the ground. She was strong, no proud boast, but even she struggled.

“Where are you going?”

“Far from here,” continuing quickly as his mouth reopened. “Somewhere you can’t follow.”

“Still set on that fool’s errand of yours?”

Interrupted, she turned to the man stopped outside. “It’s no fool’s errand. My father believed; I do also.”

“Faith makes no less a fool.” He observed as she stooped, checking inside the bag. The metal skin stared back at her, still, lifeless. Volatile. “Bet you don’t even know how to use that thing.” A sigh; he knew she did. Standing, the rucksack was hoisted slowly on before she walked out to join him. “You’re really going like that?”

Backpacking

“Those shoes are not apocalypse friendly, Francine.”

Voice like yesterday’s, she felt the dying embers of heat, ash like grit as it carried on the wind. Bare toes wriggled through the cold black earth as she thought of her father’s words, eyes closed, embracing the memory that had seen her cast off her shoes, never to be worn again.

Open again she responded. “Faith’s not for the foolish, Omah. The foolish are those who live without faith; or believe that they do.”

“Just a realist.”

“And I’m an optimist. It must work, it has to.”

“Why are you going?” Interrupted the boy, their attention stolen.

With open arms she embraced the child once more, before seeking his regard. “As a girl my father taught me many things, things I have attempted to pass on, and of which yet I have one last gift. He told me once of a device they used in the old world, a deliberator, which could bring men back from the dead.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Are you going to bring back your father?”

His question, innocent, caught her off guard. Eyes closed, she cast her face to the floor as it shook. “No, dear child, my father is too long gone now.”

“Then who?”

“She means to wake the world, boy.” Omah replied, intervening where Francine could not. “I hope you’re right; truely I do.” She forced a smile in return, hand lifted to his shoulder. “Be careful; if your father’s tales were true, if that thing really can destroy nations…” A nod was enough.

Hand clutched tighter than it ought, she kissed his cheek, eyes screwed to stem the flow of wet fighting to break free. “We’ll be together again,” she whispered to him softly, “at least have faith in that.” Then she turned, quickly, and in a moment, was gone.

Written for the Flash Fiction Challenge: The Titles Have Been Chosen at Chuck Wendig‘s site, Terrible Minds. The challenge: 1,000 words using one of 13 titles. My story used is 856 words.

The Umbrella

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“Late!” scolded James silently before cussing.

Past the ticket barrier he ascended the underground’s stairs, his suit brushing past a slow group of tourists. Clear of rain, the umbrella remained dangling from his wrist as he walked briskly through London’s meandering crowds. He saw none of them, only blurs to avoid.

But a shout forced James out of his reverie. “Give us that!”

Three youths crowded round an older woman, who looked in her late forties. One tugged the strap as she clung desperately to the shoulder bag, pushed from either side in attempts to unbalance her.

Still focused on where he should be, James turned, but never made the first step away. Something within him argued back, acting against his better judgement. They could be anyone, armed with anything, but he couldn’t just walk on by. With a jolt the handle was pulled within his grasp and he began toward them at a run.

Swiftly his arm was cast out, umbrella following in its arc, shaft extending to its limit. Another quick movement swept it horizontally, across the back of a youth’s skull, exclaiming with shock before he backed away.

The next was better prepared, forearms guarding his face. James swept back sideways as he narrowly avoided being pounced upon, then returned to poke the other youth in the face; the pair of them backed away.

Ex-Umbrella

“Come on, le’s go!”

“Wait, you cowards!” demanded the first; but they were already pushing back through the crowd. Her strap released, the woman fell backward. “Bad choice,” snarled the youth as he spat. “He’ll get what belongs to him; he always does.” Briefly he regarded James before he too retreated into the crowd.

“What in God’s name did they want?”

Another voice caught his attention, causing him to turn. “Thou shal’ not steal.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jostling past, a small, unbecoming man waddled forward. “The Bible; says thou shal’ not steal. It’s not God.” Bag plonked beside him, he sighed with effort as he knelt, James joining him. “You all right?”

“What the hell did you do that for?” Looking angrily at James, the woman bolted back up before storming off.

Taken aback by her rudeness, James was surprised when a hand was offered toward him by the old man. “Cedric; wha’s yours?”

My first attempt at flash fiction from July 2012. Expecting 500 words or more, at 382 it’s a lesson in conciseness I’m still applying.

The Prince of Hur-karr

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I was born beneath a black veil of mourning, a dark bud blooming deep in its shadow. But as any blushing mother would tell, birth is barely a beginning.

No, for it all started nine months before.

Autumn, sky overcast, her casket lowered. As a solitary black rose descended the depths on after her, none heard its crash against the casket amid the cymbals of rain all around.

black rose 1

Charitable patron, royal nursemaid, spinster — that was how she was recalled. But observing the faces surrounding her, cast darker than the clouds, tears as rain, I failed to recognise a single one. I knew; knew her as a cleaner, a cook; she told me stories, of forbidden magics; she taught me everything she knew. What had they known?

Tragic Accident. That’s what they called it. Like your belly cast before you is ever accidental. Unintentional, perhaps.

Well…

At month’s passing, and another soul’s, then people took note. And as a further body lined Hur-karran streets, crimson caressing gutters and permeating sewer pipes, their hearts flowed from them much the same. “I could stop them,” I bragged in bars to nervous nonchalance.

Time continued, killings also; a new phase, a new phantom, of one that was and was no more. Each one chosen, each one with love and care, as ripe fruit plucked from a dying vine. Each one a marker, pegging out a sign, large enough for all the heavens to see.

I began to boast in brothels, “the killer, he is me,” to looks of disdain, disrespect; they cast me out.

One last time I sought my prey, in castle grounds by the king’s grove. As the prince wandered the flower garden in the cool of evening, surrounded by his guards and his high walls, there I struck.

“Who are you?” he asked of my shadow.

“As moon shuns sun, yet loves her also, so am I to death,” my answer.

“And what want have you of me?”

“A birthrite.”

He was cleaved asunder there, from crotch to crown sliced through. His halves were discovered by guards, unalerted by the silence, a note calligraphed in his own blood. “The killer is I,” it wrote, “come meet by the old southern tower. At moon’s crest next night shall you arrive.”

I told them the spinster wasn’t there.

Night passed, yet nothing, only panic on the streets. Intentions set to arrest me, they searched the city all in vain. All awaited that one moment, forced; a moment choreographed by my own hand.

Thunder heralded my arrival. Ten men they sent to greet me, ten men rushing up the tower; crowned as lightening kissed the sky, they hurried back outside, witnessing my arrival. There I fought them, one by one, till only I and one other remained. Their youngest fought valiantly, attempting to save his life; but what he claimed, he gave, both our bodies falling to the floor.

It would be the next day they exhumed the corpse, two men digging through feet of soil. On hearing screams they stopped, listened, questioned their senses; then, realising them sound, dug all the faster, ordinary men scrambling to their aid. With similar scramblings, a dirty casket was lifted, withdrawn from quiet earth with continued cries. They prised the lid off, free.

Amidst the crumbling blackened husk of the old spinster’s remains, there lay a baby, naked, shivering. Nothing told of how the child got there, though speculation spread. But as it cried, met by open arms, it was taken to the princess’s bosom. “I will take the child,” she spoke, looking to her father, “and take him as my own.”

And the crowd melted.

The fools.

Written for the Flash Fiction Challenge: Choose Your Opening Line at Chuck Wendig‘s site, Terrible Minds. The challenge: 1,000 words using one of fourteen opening lines. My story used is 611 words.

Little Boxes

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Each day starts with sudoku, little numbers round the outside of a box. Keen wit before day’s dull, I say. Each day starts wishing I were dead.

Who am I?

That’s my question; who said you could have it?

Why do you care?

Call me Etienne.

And what do I do?

Voyeur.

Come; follow me. Welcome to room D.

My office is a cubicle, a little barless cage; beige, 6′ by 6′, no windows; just a door, desk, light, and chair. Sat in light, there’s a vice, jigs, chisel—numerous other things. Two tubes, above/below me, input/output to my process, one feeds, other carries away; the ‘overgiver’ and ‘undertaker’ they call them, someone’s sick idea of a joke. It swallows me whole, that room, my wrapping for the day.

黃鐵礦pyrite

My process? Devouring mineral from above me, eating away at sides, with chisel and emery, jigs to test its size. I mark each side with notches, designated to a plan. Each one must be faultless, each one carved by hand. Perfect as pyrite I deliver them, the size of tiny stones, by the undertaker carried away.

In the corner a little radio, only conversation I ever have. Colleagues? I have them, but the conversation’s bad. An outsider I dwelt among them, face always looking in, their crowd amassed already. I guess I never fitted in? These little cubes we’re building, they bet they’re set for orbit.

“Like the moon,” I asked with chagrin, to blank stares and little spark. “A satellite it be.”

“The moon?” With bellowed laughter. “A planet! How stupid is he?”

A small box radio in the corner, work radio for my company. For why can they not dream a little different? Push the envelope of their minds? I think they’re bound for a rocket ship, bound to leave us all behind. I dream of where they might be carried, another place, unknown, wishing I were there, instead of stuck where I call home.

Other times I dream, though waking, how things instead might be. Were it I built boxes, of chiselled oak or varnished mahogany. A different shape or purpose entirely, build them man-sized maybe? For a true undertaker to carry me off somewhere, I know. Down beneath the earth below me, an envelope to hold my soul.

Instead I sit here dreaming, monotony as my chore, corpse of a cube before me, nailed to the godforsaken wall. It hangs there, out, dissected, cast upon it with its net. I feel somehow I should recognise it, but cannot grasp it in my head.

Yet dreams of death seem daunting, so instead I have a plan; like a dream, but one to action. Demands within my hand, I plan to march to men above me, list them out one by one, perhaps become a hero, and see the undertaker gone. For I have a list before me, worked on briefly between my dreams. Eight points, twelve lines presented, to six faces I will bring.

At Malvina Reynolds played beside me, I pound it with a fist. Then again and again, till breaking, the sound finally dead.

I hate that song.

Written for the Flash Fiction Challenge: Ten Words Will Give You Five at Chuck Wendig’s site, Terrible Minds. The challenge: 1,000 words using five of ten randomly generated words. My story used cube, chisel, envelope, satellite and undertaker, and is 523 words.

Why I Carry Bleach

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A page turns, rustlin’ as they flick back out within her grasp. “Another,” she sighs. “‘Percy Wallace, 53, dead in Killarney with his innards out.’”

Head rested on backs o’ palms, I read: March, 2137

“Why d’ya even buy those? It’s a fortune. Could you not just subscribe and –?”

“Because nothin’ feels so good as the printed page in your hand, hun. Besides, I have enough.” A pause; another page. “You gonna finish that?” I shake me head, an unbroken yolk starin’ me back. “Then let’s go.”

No sooner are we out than I hear that customary tap—yet another expense—the sound of flint, then flame.

“D’ya mind?”

“No.”

Always the same; don’t know why I bother ask.

Inside ‘the Ambivalence’ I search past notes and unopened things littering the dash. Keys. I pluck them out her hand as she dangles them afore me.

“D’ya mind?”

“And what if someone jacked it?”

“This piece o’ junk; you kiddin’?”

She thinks she’s so smart.

Ambulance

‘Cos she is; we both know she’s the brains, I’m just her shadow. But then, she is the reason we’re here.

Gwedna Mitchell, wife to Will Mitchell, 68th President of the United States no less. And its 6th assassination. The Yanks hated it; they ousted her. But she knew. A trail of bloody destruction had led her direct to Ireland’s doorstep; now, like today, when we weren’t solvin’ other people’s problems, we were solvin’ her’s.

She’d saved my sorry arse.

Her trio of taps clang against the metal o’ the door. “What you want?” Comes a reply from upstairs; a bald man, skinhead, in nothin’ but a vest. So she tells him, before being told cordially to go piss in a dustbin.

“Do it.”

“No.”

“Just –”

“No, I’m not –” Suddenly I find a blade across me palm, and swear to make me mother blush.

“What d’ya do that for?”

She passes me a look; I know very well why for. So I squeeze at it, blood seepin’, and I growl.

I look at the keypad: an old Sterling D-BM16, model B; a four digit pin and thumb print to unlock. I place me palm upon it. Slow odorous smoke rises before the panel sparks; I feel it through me fillin’s as I clench me teeth. That taste o’ metal in me mouth; I hate it.

“Sort yourself, I’ll sort him.” My acquiescence is nothing short o’ sarcastic. Sort meself. Makes me sound cheap, like some object spent.

Still, wouldn’t want to be him; she has that look in her eye, and I wouldn’t want to be the other side of it. Whene’er she has that look it always gets violent—always—and I make a point to keep me distance.

Greeted by shouting, she greets it back, storming stairward to the landing. “What do you know?” Are her stern demands, which she repeats to denials. I hear a door slam.

Meanwhile I nurse me hand, careful not to touch the wound; or anything else. Melted plastic; the smell makes me stomach wretch. I wait, listen to the back and forth, then find my way to the kitchen.

See, neither of us are what you might call ‘normal’. Me? Me bloods… different; specific to this moment, it doesn’t clot, not without aid.

There’s the hollow of a bucket in the sink—I hardly want to wreck the place—then a rush o’ noise as I turn the cold on full. The knob starts smokin’ slightly at the turn; less careful than I thought. As it plunges into the depth I hiss, but the coolness of it is soothin’ to the heat. For a moment I pause.

I hear them still at it as I wait; the sound of furniture pressed up against a wall, of items being knocked away. I swear I hear him groan, perhaps at the force of the blow. This is her, this is what she’s like; violent; make no mistake about it.

Still, waiting and cold water won’t heal my wounds, so I search. And search. What? No bleach? What!

For just such occasions I fall back on experience. Like a thundercloud, I storm toward Ambivalence, barely hearing the greetings of an old man. I throw open doors, grab bleach, grab bandages then stride back, acknowledging the now confused man as I go.

Most of the half bottle I empty into the bucket, what remains lacing a strip of bandage rolled out across the counter. Again I drown me hand, and once more I hiss, but all pain this time; there’s no soothin’ here. The fluids cloud and wisps. When I retrieve me hand it’s complete with black scab, fully formed, right across me palm. And she expects me to drive with this? The bandage will neutralise any weepin’; I cut it to size before bundlin’ me hand.

When I’m done I get to more useful chores. Breakin’ past his encryption I pilfer his call history, his contacts, location cache and calender. I scarcely finish when I hear talkin’, calmer now, then the sounds of feet on stairs.

I watch as she descends, righting her suit skirt like some tough man might. “Got it. Apparently a friend own’s lock-ups in Fenit. He took the package straight there for safe keeping; didn’t even bother to open it.”

“What d’ya do?”

She smirks. “A lady never tells.” Course she’d never.

“You know, don’t; just don’t.”

Another cigarette flares within fingers, a long drag followed by a streak of white that reminds me of her hair. “Let’s go.”

I just catch glance o’ the man as we leave, mouthin’ ‘call me’. Why? I’m not gay. He can’t be that much of a masochist.

Can he?

Why are they always like that?

I wag me head disapprovin’ly as I exit out the door.

He’s a scrappy dishevelled paramedic with acid for blood. She’s a chain-smoking nymphomaniac former first lady on the trail of a serial killer.

They fight crime!

Written for the Flash Fiction Challenge: They Fight Crime! at Chuck Wendig’s site, Terrible Minds. The challenge: 1,000 words using the They Fight Crime! random generator. My story is 993 words.