“DO you know why you’re here?”
“Because of the women.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“The women they’re saying I killed.”
The 2020 Annual
DONNY Simms sat apprehensively on the trainer’s table. The butterflies were already churning.
“Don’t be nervous,” his manager, Cal Burton, said. “This one’s a lock.”
“A lock?” Donny asked. “Grady’s big-time.”
“Mac Grady ain’t nothin’ but a washed-up bum,” Cal replied. “We take him down and move on to the next fight, same as always.”
Selected Short Stories
"EIGHT in the corner,” Lefty Sharpe declared. He set for his shot quickly. People often marveled at how quickly Lefty pulled the trigger. It was almost like he didn’t need to aim. The cue ball fired off his stick and smacked the eight ball crisply. The eight ball rolled along the smooth blue felt, caught the corner pocket at the lip of the guard rail, and rattled in. The Cue Room erupted.
“Did it again!” Trey Spenser laughed, as the onlookers cheered. Lefty’s opponent was only one in a long line of patsies he came across every night. There were few people who could give Lefty a decent game, fewer who could beat him, and none who could do it consistently. The patsy stood there for a moment, clearly a little humiliated. He plucked down fifty dollars on the table and walked away.
"HALT!” the stunned guards demanded repeatedly, as the horse and its rider galloped headlong toward the Moabite castle.
Despite the words of warning, the steed continued charging toward the front, pulling up abruptly at the exact instant the gatekeepers raised their weapons to attack.