My Friday Fictioneers entry for this week:
Aldon sat in a booth at the rear of the bar, sipping draft, watching the musicians. He’s late.
A man approached the bar, ordered a drink. After one sip, he headed to the washroom. A matchbook landed on Aldon’s seat as he passed. Inside was a message:
Aldon shredded the message into the ashtray, finished his beer, threw a bill on the table, and sauntered out.
He strolled down the street, around the corner. Ducking into an alley, he drew his pistol, waiting.
Cold metal pushed into the back of his neck. “Don’t move!”
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You can see all of this week’s entries here: