Cops & Robbers
Featuring stories by writers Travis Garner, John Hague, Laurence Raphael Brothers, and Benjamin Schachtman, read by actors Jere Williams, E. James Ford, Kristen Calgaro, and Elizabeth Alice Murray. Hosted by Elizabeth Alice Murry at KGB Bar on 5th December 2018.
It's a dirty little tavern on a dirty little station circling a dirty little world. Just a job, until something better comes along. "You missed a spot," says Gerhard, the owner, and he pours out the dregs of a sleeping drunk's gin. Coriolis force pulls the stream out into an arc before it splashes on the floor. That's how crummy a station this is: despite all the transuranics that pass through this place, they can't afford gravity generators; the place actually spins.
The sun is a rat bastard. Especially when you’re perched up in a bay window facing east. I nearly suffocated myself with a pillow when the sun tipped in through the glass, and it didn’t matter one lick. It found every angle. Even rolling into the seam between the cushions of that chaise lounge wouldn’t save me.
Harry had just bought a gun. He couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. It was heavier than he expected, with real weight that that gave it a certain tangibility he’d never imagined. It was cold and hard and lifeless. Three traits he would need to embody if really intended on mugging someone.
Your breath smelled like pad thai when you slammed me against the wall, steel biting my wrists, the stubble on your jaw prickling over my earlobe. You growled through clenched teeth – “Up against the wall, bitch” – and twisted my arm. The slick smell of peanut oil, the salty bite of fish sauce. I jerked sideways, kicking backwards like a blinded horse. I caught something hard, your shin or your knee. The air whistled between your teeth. The bright, soapy scent of cilantro.