The Billionaire's Mistress

The detective smoked on the cigar as he watched the new client walk in. The person was evidently from the lower rungs. Quite distinct from his general clientele. He wondered where did she get the reference, money, and the confidence to approach his office.

"I'm a mistress of the owner of Exotic Chemicals. His daughter has gone missing. I'm here to represent the owner."

As he put down the cigar on the ashtray, he recalled the magazine stories about the secretive billionaire. The conspiracy theories on film raced across his vision as the client opened her lips to speak again.

From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar

Debarun sleeps, eats, reads, smokes, drinks, labors, and occasionally writes stories and submits them. Recent works have appeared or are forthcoming in Visitant, Off the Coast, The Opiate, Aainanagar, Rat’s Ass Review, Tittynope, and here at A Story in 100 Words, among others. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com

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The lone imagineer of the radioactive sand cloud that froze Florida in death and time worked for Disney. Tourists, natives, gangsters, and gators were rendered untouchable beneath a toxic sheet of glass. The reflection burned up satellites and crisped drones mid-air, and it was agreed the whole place should be forgotten, for now. So they forgot the flamingos and the dancing girls and the cigar factories in Tampa where the son cubano played on. Nobody remembered to forget the island past Key West where an old man sold boat rides to Havana for five dollars and a bottle of rum.

From Guest Contributor Courtney Watson