Street Hustle

“Hey man, wanna buy a Rolex,” the punk in the shiny nylon jacket asked as he approached me on the street.

"How much?” I asked as I looked around to see if he had a partner. He didn’t.

“Thirty bucks, and it’s the real thing,” he told me as he handed the watch to me.

I pretended to be examining the watch, when I said “hold on,” as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my badge.

“Metro vice,” I announced as I reached for my handcuffs. He spun around and ran like Jack the bear towards Fremont.

From Guest Contributor Leroy B. Vaughn

Bumping Into An Old Friend

Like a beacon of an unkind fate the bald pate shines where his pink Mohawk once grew.

“Punk’s not dead,” he drools, the two pints of Heineken having gone to his head, when back in the day it would have taken five, or eight.

“Yeah, the spirit lives on,” I lie to this ghost from my past sitting alone in the bar without any hope of a date.

“Another pint?” the zombie asks, but I don’t hesitate with the well, it’s getting late, been nice to catch up, thanking God for boring suburbs, wife and kids, the nine to five.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.