Flash fiction by Michael Botur
Clock says nine, time to pull up on that forecourt in my stolen Holden Clubsport, pull the hood down, get my weapon out.
Your man here’s adept at the olllld Grand Theft Cigarette, yessir, scourge of petrol stations everywhere, Chernobyl of Mobils, Vexer of Caltex, the Zorro of Z, the G that takes tobaccy from the BP.
Packa Holidays, fair maid, I’ll say, tur hur hur, and she rattles cabinet keys to let the ciggies free and that’s me, vaulting the counter, landing beside her, GIZ YA SMOKES OR I’LL SMASH YA, tur hur hur, me one, Gasoline Alley none, then I hoon to the Four Square, ramraid the door, snatch a hundred packs of this and that, Pall Malls, Port Royal, Dunhill crammed in Santa’s sack.
Cept, the story ain’t end that way, cause Cigarette Santa’s got prezzies in his Holden sleigh. See, Ciggy Santa sprinkles overtaxed thirty dollar packs of smokes round the hood, just tryina do a little good. Toss em on lawns like a newspaper dawn.
Know what, G? Pinch the rich, more for the poor, I’m Robin Hood, and I’m robbin THIS fuckin hood, spreadin Rizzlas and filters on people’s sections and you better believe it’s glee as peeps come out in their dressing gowns and hold up their pouch or snouts, shivering with relief cause this week I saved ‘em thirty, fifty. For some, a hundy.
Judges wanna know how come I done it. They probly don’t believe in the Santa of Ciggies. Court won’t even let me represent me. Pssht. Feds reckon it’s the meth what motivated me. Reckon I oughta plead insanity.
Nah, G. Ciggy Santa ain’t crazy.
Anyways, I got a date in court in May. Wish us luck and pray, and oi – giz a smoke, mate. Jus while I wait.
In other news….
Diner’s Club – new short story from the collection JOYRIDE, due out 2019
Crimechurch – manuscript completed; just getting it published, now
Schrödinger’s Scoop – Short story