THE MUSE AND THE MINION
A muse came to me behind the liquor store and put a gun to my head. She told me to write a story.
“Sit down,” she said evenly as she drew the hammer back. Her voice was velvety, masculine, the skin on her trigger finger fair. There was a desk there and a pencil and a pad and the steel of her heater chilled the skin on my forehead and sent a wave of sensation down to my heels so I obliged her command. One of her minions stood close by, a Kalashnikov hanging loosely from his shoulder, holding a quart of Russian Standard and a glass in either hand. He stepped and set the bottle on the desk and the little glass next to it and then poured me three fingers before quietly retreating into the shadows.