One of the things Melinda Kendall liked best about the shit was that it helped make light of a good, honest fix. That's what she reckoned she was knee-deep in right now: a good, honest fix. All the newspapers and bulletins and flyers posted at truck stops all told her the same thing and that's she better get out of Mississippi. Thanks to the shit, her brain fired quicker, which made events move in slo-mo, let her stay on top of the situation. That about did it for the good news.
Now for the rest: No motel in Mississippi would be safe. After the trucker and the wine guy, the cops gave her a modus operandi. The guy at the state park and the two frat boys back in Louisiana added heat. The kids had been rich and the state park fella had been someone who mattered in the shit town where she'd met him.
Melinda probably should swear off guys for a little while.
Getting out of Mississippi would be more difficult than she imagined. She sat atop a hill on the hood of a stolen Nissan and looked through the stolen binoculars at the highway below her. Just a Rapunzel's hair from the state line, a mile's worth of traffic snaked out from one hell of a mess of police vehicles, all with their lights flashing and spinning. Uniformed officers checked every vehicle and driver. Family vacations were delayed, sales quotas dropped, and promises to be home for dinner were broken. All because the state of Mississippi needed to find the evil tweaker prostitute known as Sweet Melinda.
Return toHome Page
Literary Fiction, Noir, Pulp Fiction, Short Stories