Page 25

Edgar Medflin stared at the display case of vintage fiber-optic lamps.

The sprays of thin plastic spaghetti changed colors at random times, and he found it mesmerizing.

Of course, the weed he just tried probably had a lot to do with his current state.

The Rainbow Belts strain of pot had him seeing colored arcs in the haze around the slowly rotating clouds of sparkles.

“My people are gonna love this shit,” he told the lamps, imagining they approved of his opinion.

Lately, though, he’d been thinking about selling everything and taking his happy ass down to Florida.

It was all because that biker gang wouldn’t leave him alone.

First time the Slaggers came through, they offered a business deal to store and distribute the hard stuff.

Crack, meth, fennies, whatever it was, he wasn’t interested.

They came back with a bigger offer and a threat: Work with us or lose everything.

To make that point, they’d trashed a whole display of mini-waterpipes.

Still, Edgar wouldn’t play ball with them.

Yeah, he dealt a little weed out the back door, but he wasn’t a big player in the greater scheme of things, so the cops generally left him alone.

Edgar liked it like that and had no intention of upsetting the apple cart.

Start dealing in the hard stuff? It was only a matter of time before someone fingered him and his whole world collapsed.

He’d heard from other businesses on this strip that the Slaggers had hit them up, too, either for “protection” money or distribution deals.

The Iron City Knights had the titty bar down the street and were also a holdout.

Edgar figured they would be the ones to kick the rival bikers out of this area for good. But so far, nothing.

Until the drive-by a week or so ago. Edgar couldn’t quite recall what day it happened, but he did remember hearing and seeing the vehicle with the guns shooting into the sky.

The incident had him thinking maybe it really was time to sell and move.

He had cousins in Florida who spent their days on the beach and their nights running the beach stores that sold tourist shit.

“That could be kinda cool.”

He wasn’t sure why he was talking to himself. A giggle came out of his throat.

“Damn, I’m freakin’ high as fuck,” he informed the lamps with a nod.

He noticed the black sky outside. Time was relative, and at the moment, he had no idea if it was just after sunset or just before sunrise. Either way, he decided he was hungry.

“Munchies suck.”

He thought about the soft pretzels he had in the freezer. Just needed to nuke in the microwave for two minutes, but he’d have to leave the store unattended while he ambled back to the office. Instead, he unwrapped an expired Tastykake and crammed half of it into his bearded mouth.

Prolly got crumbs in my facebush, he thought as he brushed at them.

The sudden crash of glass startled him, and he sucked the wad of masticated dough into his windpipe. Air became a precious commodity as he started choking and tried to dislodge the blocking food.

Death by butterscotch krimpet.

But he was wrong.

It was the bomb that killed him.