Story #20

There’s magic there. And madness.

Her words.

He swore and spat. Opposite him at the table was a woman who looked like she had been poured into a roughly hewn mould. Amateur work. She was eying him carefully. Measuring him like a pawnbroker looks over a cheap gold ring. A pawnbroker who had run out of luck.

He took another swig of his beer. It was warm. He hated warm beer.

Looking around the bar he saw the usual sorts, tough wannabe gangsters, actual gangsters who no longer have to be tough and a couple of Morati. He fucking hated Morati.

He turned back to the woman opposite him. She was now a beautiful blonde with dangerous eyes. He hated when they changed like that.

Fucking Morati.

“Well?” He prompted.

She replied in a voice that was like silk dipped in honey. The sort of voice that doesn’t bear the ignobility of being in the open air but goes straight to your brain. Bypasses your senses.

He squinted at her. Fuck Morati. Grabbing the envelope he got up and headed out into the rain.

There’s magic there. And madness.

He spat on the floor, his saliva mixing with the water running down the street.