Once again, the lovely Rochelle, Maven of artistic fact and fiction, and Dale, ingenious photographer to the ethereal and adroit crafter of masterful tales, have conspired to extract mid-April narratives from the noggins and minds of Friday Fictioneer followers.
My song-related reportage maxed out at the 100-word limit and follows Dale’s visual. Click on the chair to write your story if you dare.
Genre: Senior Gonzo Fiction
Title: Concealed Carry
Word Count: 100
We limped in. Kris needed his cane. The music sucked, but our old table was available. We sat and waited.
A young man approached.
He said, “You need to leave. We don’t want your kind in here. Now get out.”
I glared at him for a minute. “Two waters, coffee with cream, and menus, please.” His anger was visible as he moved closer. Kris placed his pistol on the table.
“Listen motherfucker, I’m Bobby McGee. We’ve nothing left to lose. You do. Repeat the order, fetch it with a smile or say ‘goodbye.’ We ain’t leaving alive. We’ll await Janis.”
Look both ways but remember the seventies if you can.
Mind the gaps for Glocks and dead grumpy waiters.
Give a Glock Click HERE to find more great stories. And for your happy entertainment, four of the finest good ol’ boys.