Micro fiction from Black Tarn Publishing

Black Foxy

I leave Lenny out back of the market and head down Sokratous to find Foxy. It’s August, hot nights and sticky, that Athens stickiness, and the stink of the backstreets comin up from the sewers and the hum of spice from every other shop and the cheap perfume of hoors. That’s backstreet Athens for ya, scents of the dirty night, dirty night scents, and some of us thrive on it. I’m in it, the city’s outzone, hoors and conmen and cunts on the run, sell ya shite or rob ya blind so best your eyes be open. Beggars and thieves all, and then I go round the corner, and there they are, hoors up and down the street, and Foxy’ll be there somewhere for she’s just called me in a state and asked me to come down, so I’m goin down. I owe her. They’re all out tonight, beat Belorussian hookers and the trannies all bent outta shape, and gaudy Ukrainians and the sly Serbs, all out, and I see Foxy on the corner suckin the life out of a cigarette and lookin shiftier than usual, even for Foxy. Black Foxy. Big black shemale, hands like vises, best handjob in Athens, so they say. I call her.

Where you been? she says, flickin the cigarette into the road, all antsy.

You told me to come down so I’m here, I say.

You better come up, she says, and she turns and heads down the street.

What’s the story, Foxy?

Better see for yourself.

And we head in the building and up the stairs, third floor, where she’s got that dingy pad. She opens the door and inside we go, and he’s there on the floor, some punter of Foxy’s with his head busted in, bleedin all over the floor.

Who’s that Foxy? I say.

Doesn’t matter, she says. He’s a fucker.

I step over the guys arm, put two fingers on his neck.

A dead fucker, Foxy, I say.

dystopian fiction

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