Memory Lane

Lugs disabled the alarm with the magnet points and I slipped the lock and we were in.

“Nice place,” I said, looking around. “You ever eat here?”

“You fucking kidding?” he said, unscrewing the cap off of the jerrycan and dripping homemade napalm across a row of booths. “All my money goes to the track.”

“I came here once,” I said, “when I was kid. I dated this rich girl. Her father wanted to take my measure.”

“Yeah? How’d that work out?”

“Not so hot,” I said as I uncapped the flares.

“Gonna be hot now,” smiled lugs. “You ready?”

Friday Fictioneers

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