Story copyright (c) 2002 H. Courreges LeBlanc.
She smiled. "That was my father's name."
I knew that, of course; that's why I'd chosen it. "Go on," I said, waving a hand toward the stairs.
"I can't afford to pay," she said.
"No charge tonight."
She dimpled. "You can be so sweet."
"Come on," the Todd said, tugging her toward the stairs.
After they were upstairs, I lit another cigarette and punched up the silf for the front door.
"What's up, quink?"
"You know Alexia?"
"The one with the eyes? Here every Tuesday night?"
"That's her." I took a drag. "She's blackballed after tonight."
"I thought she was your squish."
"Just blackball her before I degauss your digital ass."
"Fine. She's blackballed. Sheesh. Quinks can be so damn touchy." It dropped the connection.
I leaned back in my chair. In that hard unyielding wooden chair, the same chair I sat in every night. A splotch of moonlight leaked through the filthy window, and lay on the
A story, heavy with slang (the meaning of which has to be inferred from the story) about a guy who might be a pimp that at the very least drugs his girls and boys, and may actually be reanimating them from the dead.
There's not much to the plot, but you'll be kept busy trying to figure out what's being said and what's going on. A nicely strange story.
I still don't know what a quink is, but it was a pretty good story.
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