micsan

The door buzzer grated loudly. It competed with a loud rockabilly tune for the attention of the distracted clerk in the tiny, brightly-lit store. The lone clerk of Rob’s CD Trades this evening was perched at the back on a high stool behind a glass case filled with the high- end merchandise, locked away from shoplifters and greasy fingered customers. A newspaper was spread out across the counter, carefully unfolded and pinned under her elbows. An over-sized black sweatshirt enveloped…

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Tito was struggling with the cigarette package. Maybe it was the half bottle of cheap scotch flowing through his veins or the adrenalin racing through him, but his fingers had been trembling from the moment he sat down in the dark and abandoned warehouse office.  The cigarettes were not his brand; he had found them tucked away inside the black jacket he wore. The package looked Turkish or something eastern, and with that knowledge, he had abandoned hope that they…

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