11:16 PM, December 24th.
South Personificationsburg, Abstractia.
Shifty Simmons was
leaning back onto an alley dumpster, entangled in a moth-ridden trench coat
three sizes too large for him. He held a stack of bills in his hands, passing
them back and forth like a deck of playing cards and taking in the crisp yet
crumpled scent of Legitimately Acquired legal tender. Sighing contentedly, he stuffed the bills back in his pocket and smoothed down the dusky patchwork
spider web he called hair. As he rose back to his intimidating peak of four
foot ten, I decided to speak up.
“Evening, Sim.”
“AH!” Simmons jump earned
him more hang time than an 18th century pickpocket. The landing, however, was a
mere 3 out of 10.
“D-D-Donny! What a
s-surprise!” he wheedled like a clarinet filled with equal parts phlegm and
sawdust. “What, ah, eheh, brings you to my neck of the woods?”
I stepped out of the
shadows and rolled my eyes, vision glowing with a six pack of cigarettes
rubber-banded together.
“Please, Sim. Even you
can’t be that dense. Why does anyone
come to you?”
