Legion

Legion

   This is some serious bullshit, thought Ricky as he sat on the hard wooden bench. He looked over at the bum sitting by the collect call phone in the big cell, muttering quietly to himself (“spiders so many spiders bad spiders”). He looked over at the kid in the corner trying to sleep on the hard bench, using a toilet paper roll as his pillow. Ricky crossed his arms. The cops took his jacket before they fingerprinted him, and it was fucking cold in lock-up.

Ricky was seriously pissed off. Here he sat in jail and the fucking pigs let the white-boy go, even though he started the fight. Ricky was just standing at the bar with Allie and the fucking puto comes out of nowhere and tells Ricky to go back to the hood where he belongs, to leave the girl alone so she could talk to a real man. Ricky was about to tell him to fuck off when Allie did it for him. The white-boy didn’t like that, and started making some racist comments.

“Fucking beaners should stay in the hood,” said the white-boy before he walked away.

“Rich white-boys should learn to handle their booze,” said Ricky with a smile. Allie jumping in on his side had calmed him down.

“What’d you say to me?” said the white-boy, his face turning red, “You wanna step outside, Pedro?”

Strange Worlds Blog (Blogger)

Strange Worlds Blog (Blogger)

I don’t have this wordpress site quite to where I want it to be. Until then please check out my Blogger site.

“The King of Michigan” – Flash Fiction Challenge

Last week’s entry “The Death Statue”

This week’s Flash Fiction Challenge Rules are to use these ten words in a story:

Funeral, Captivate, Deceit, Brimstone, Canyon, Balloon, Clay, Disfigured, Willow, Atomic

Great Mix right? Here goes!

The King of Michigan

My family still lived in the Lakelands, what used to be northern Minnesota and Canada, maybe with a little Wisconsin. Nothing near there was hit in the collapse, and the citizens were pretty independent. I hadn’t been back in half a dozen years. When my cousin Connor arrived and told me my uncle was dead, I didn’t think much of it. Then he told me the funeral was in the Lakelands, and the family wanted me to come.

“The Death Statue” – Flash Fiction Challenge

The Death Statue

Let’s get this straight right off the bat: I am not in Special Ops or Clandestine Ops or Black Ops… not really in ops at all. I’m a detective. I don’t have awesome ass-kicking skills and I’ve never shot anyone. I am good at figuring things out. It’s usually a simple job. Someone suspects this guy or that girl is involved in some kind of scam or anti-whatever group which might one day put a bomb in a school or mosque or meat factory. There are all sorts of crazies these days. So I go and stakeout the guy, follow him, find out who his friends are. Then I write a report. That is how I spend about half my time. Writing reports. What I do isn’t usually dangerous, but I do have a gun. Yes, it’s a Walther PPK. Yes, I carry it because that’s what Bond carried. No, I don’t think I’m James Bond. I couldn’t buy an Aston Martin with 5 years salary, and as for sex with hot ladies on the job? In my fucking dreams. Literally.