Who am I? Call me Charlie. When people need something to go away, I’m the guy they call. Blood, bodies, punk bitches, and snitches. I take care of it all—one-stop shop to make lives easier or make lives end. Just gotta pay me. And keep your fucking mouth shut. I don’t market myself. I don’t put cryptic ads on Craigslist. Don’t need to.

When we moved to the new cave, Dook became my first and best homie. My tribe bounced around a lot, trying to dodge the cold and get grub, you know? When we found this cave, Dad was stoked. Then, we found this whole other tribe already living there. A small one, but, like, seriously? They were short, stocky, had, like, the biggest brows I’d ever seen.

Here I am—another beat city bloke emerging from the London tube. I breathe out the soot and engine grease I’ve inhaled underground, and queue up for my morning dose of americano with extra shot of depresso. Busy station—cafes and bakeries, mechanical voice soundtrack and miserable commuters dragging themselves to be swallowed by glitzy office blocks for the next nine hours.

The man was already half in love with her before she even said his name. “Danny,” she drawled, letting the syllables melt like rum over ice. “You smell like driftwood and other people’s mistakes.” He laughed too quickly—shoulders tight, eyes flickering like they’d misread something. A laugh that begged: please, let this stay simple. She leaned in, close enough for him to catch the synthetic coconut oil in her hair.

I saw death in his eyes. Doug sensed it too. “Stay,” he said, gripping my shirt. Sand scattered from his hands and down my front. “I can get help,” I said, not believing there’d be time. Swallowing, Doug shook his head. His lips were dry and crusted. His eyes sunken. The baking heat of the desert does that to a man.

Later, once all requisite reports had been properly filled out, it was determined that the break-in had occurred at 9:30 a.m. Timing, as the sage has pointed out, is everything. Most especially when police forms are done in triplicate. Perhaps if it had been a weekday during the school year, the escaped murderer and bank robber extraordinaire Norman Peters might still be alive.

The heavy beat shook the thin walls of my apartment, like a coffin maker hammering nails. The Grim Reaper was getting impatient—maybe today. My lung cancer is a bastard, but so is my neighbour. He …

“I want to see your manager—now.” “I’m trying to help, Mrs…” Irwin glanced at the card in his hand, “Haversford-Waterford. We don’t carry draperies in that color. I’d be happy to find something sim…

How to submit your microfiction and flash fiction to Sudden Flash