Day 3 Winner of Quarto’s 2020 Thunderdome Flash Fiction Contest. View the prompt here.
Angie was first to go over and make real money.
Angie sends me receipts, napkins. I miss you this, tell the girls that.
Angie co-signed my lease, paid to get my tits done, for me not for the money. I’d lose my balance with
some glass in their lap when her men were dogs.
***
Behind the bar has been tough. I started working days for a clean break and Gina comes in puffy at
eleven, orders a vodka soda before hitting stage. They’re like, change your playground, playmates,
playthings, but I’m fine until Gina. Now no letters.
***
Then they come in, Where’s that pretty blonde, Annie? Does Amy still work here? I don’t know no Amy, I
have to step out for a smoke. Yesterday, one asked for her right, Angie. I just about hit the floor. Told Ray
to cover and went out to co-signed car, checked again for return address, my heart in my ass. Like, Fuck
you, Angie, running off to Japan to get killed! I’m no fun? Don’t live for myself? You live for no one,
bitch, you’re dead!
***
I skip meetings, go bedroom, eat chicharrones, watch Silence of the Lambs, watch Buffalo Bill dance, his
little dog down well. Waiting for some Tokyo cop's call, like, We found her box of postcards never sent.
All night, my heart in my ass. Only leave for chicharrones, pass the fridged 40s and home.
***
Gina on stage, puffy as hell. Some young guys not tipping. My top last shift’s sticky. As hell as earth
allows.
Off early. Checked my box, ready for another day down. But instead, an envelope, sunk on one end. I tear
and parrot, palm trees, tall script, sunset backlit, Greetings from Hawaii. Plastic chip with big 6. Hey
Sweetie, Happy—