Flying Death
she mumbles, her eyes wide.
I exhale a huge lung full of smoke and relish the calm feeling for a second.
“He’s not only the Flying Death, he’s the reaper and I’m pretty sure your time is up lady,” Missile says, laughing as I hand him back the joint.
Just then the rumble of some motorcycles filters into the lot and I can only crack my neck. Her eyes gloss over and her heart rate goes bonkers. I like seeing her sweat.
“Have you had any other children,” I ask, rubbing my beard.
Bab Populer