He tucked his right thumb into his palm and clamped down. With a dull thud his digit fell out of place and the rusted manacle slipped from his wrist. A neat little trick he’d learned from The King of Handcuffs, Houdini.
Hands freed, he ripped a button from his shirt and used the metal clasp — bent to a straight pick — to unlock the pitiful, antique lock.
He eyed the object playfully on one free finger. A wry smile wrapped his face. Amateurs. Like thirty year old Blonnack cuffs could keep Veller, The Peerless fettered.
Veller tossed the tarnished, dent-riddled bracelets to his rat-chewed, sweat-damp sleeping mat and scrubbed the orange rust-slime onto his pant legs.
“A wise man once told me that there was an art to saying sorry.”
“Michel Ney? Ain’t you dead?” Fink said. Ney laughed.
“Aren’t you?” He gestured at Crockett with the pistol. “And you?”
“Got you there, Mike.” Davy said. Continue reading
Her name was Summer but her stage name was Spring, not to be funny but because it was her favorite season. Up to a week ago she had been employed at the Candy Bar, working lunches Monday through Thursday. She didn’t particularly enjoy the work and it showed in her performance, which was why she worked lunches, Monday through Thursday.
A week ago was when I met her, at first briefly as she drunkenly stumbled into the motel room next to mine, her sweaty companion winking a lewd wink my way as he followed her in. Her sweaty companion had not been there before, leading me to believe their use of the room would be measured in the single digit hours.
I was mistaken.
‘ABOARD THE FOOL JIM’
“Welcome aboard the Fool Jim, Davy.” Fink said, watching Crockett clamber over the railing. Davy glared at him.
“Not going to give me a hand or nothing?”
“So they tell me.” Fink stretched his arms as if to encompass the air-ship. “What do you think?” Continue reading