“We don’t take kindly to your people.”
Hypocrites. Fucking Luddites.
“We’re clean, God fearing folk.”
Clean? The Amish are fucking clean. At least they have the guts to go full haul: Saltsouls. I can smell your SUV from here.
“Look techo,” I rolled, “you hired us. So slag the preach and leave us the scramble.”
“Just get rid of her. And get out of my town.”
He ain’t fumbling anyone. Sure, he wants the witch slagged. And we need the jink. Worried his daughter might run off with the sexy magic man.
“Matt!” yelled Clara, “Gibbs chirped me.”
“Don’t forget our jink,” I slid to the Mayor, “Wouldn’t want a reason to come back.” Slip his girl a wink.
Gibbs spied right: I could feel the chopper’s roar as it rolled past us. Custom hog flashing sunlight, the rider in half leather: black as her skin. Hair flying wild: white as her teeth.
I threw a t-ball at the bike: a Tracker’s mainstay.
“You see her aura, Matt?” Clara asked as the enchanted blue marble bounced after the bike.
“Felt it. Regroup,” I ordered.
© 2007 Jon Thysell. Some Rights Reserved.
Black Magic Woman by Jon Thysell is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.