Flash! Fiction 3 by Peter McMillan - HTML preview

18

He'd reminded Martin of a friend back in Chicago who spoke the same way and carried himself with the same swagger. But there was one big difference. This kid  maybe 12 or 13  had a single black eyebrow separating his forehead from the rest of his face.

The other five kids wore the same eyebrow.

"Not really," responds Martin without any hesitation. "I know you can beat me to a pulp again, but I think I've got something better to offer. You can make a lot of money and still beat me to a pulp."

"C'mon, let's beat him to a pulp" says the eyebrow that must have been second in command.

"Shuddup, I'm thinkin" shouts the primo eyebrow. "OK kid, how's this gonna work?"

"Well, we gotta have an audience," Martin answers, bringing out some of the emphatic gestures he'd picked up in his old neighbourhood.

"Whoa! What? Whadya mean an audience? The cops'll be all over us," exclaims the head eyebrow.

"No," interjects Martin, "not just any audience. We want the high stakes voyeurs—uh—I mean, the people who prefer to watch, but not the crazy ones that go to the dog fights. We want those flabby old grandpas sick of playing cards and board games down at the centre but too afraid to do anything else."

"Awright," says the preeminent eyebrow. "Say we hook a few of these old geesers. Tell 'em there's a street fight and they can see it, up-close and personal and all hush-hush. Whadda we charge 'em?"

"A Benjamin—er—a c-note per head," answers Martin as he moves his lower jaw and left and right. "Can't do this forever, you know."