Microfiction: Mic Dropping

Amidst the violence, when the shady deals were just being struck, and the drugs hitting streams of blood at the rate of a brain burst, he plugged in his instrument and warmed up his other physical one. The microphone crackled against his breath, and he sang a few languid notes.

This drew every eye in the building, as it did every night. After all, he was not supposed to be there. No entertainment was scheduled here, only orgies and murders and embellishments in its early stages.

“I feel as though you are all guilty, no?” he sang to them. Guns whipped out to face him so fast that he wasn’t even sure some of them had bothered to undo the safety.

Howard did not care; he bobbed up and down the back of the room, copying moves he’d seen from a Japanese pop star. He flipped his long hair with the back of his hand.

“I think you all pieces of shit, eh? Can I wipe you away with a flood, how about a cop ambush?”

That got the game going.

Some of them just ran, while others decided that it was worthwhile to kill him first. The hail of bullets sent tendrils of smoke rolling along the ground.

And Howard laid, still smiling, his chest a mess of leaking holes and a good chunk of his head missing.

Subtly, then, time undid itself.

Special thanks to: Melissa Potter

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